


Fool Me Twice

by Lurea



Series: Fool Me Once [6]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Body Worship, Break Up, Canon-Typical Violence, Child In Danger, Deacon has Issues, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rare Pairings, Sexual Assault, Slavery, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-03-20 18:46:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 69,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13723773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurea/pseuds/Lurea
Summary: Turns out that Mac is like, some sort of catnip for random children.  Deacon hates it.  No, no, he really hates it.  Almost as much as he hates MacCready.Blue stood up and brushed dust off the knees of her Vault suit.  “Yeah, MacCready’s here.  He’s taking a nap in the settlement.”Deacon missed a keystroke and the terminal started beeping at him.  Damn it.  It took him three tries to turn it off, which was two more than it usually took.  He looked up to see Blue and Piper exchanging glances.  “Sorry, what?  Totally didn’t hear you.  I actually lost the hearing in that ear when I saved my baby brother from drowning. True story.”





	1. Baby, you got me like ohh

**Author's Note:**

> The tags on this fic are now complete. (Previously, I said: I will update the tags whenever posting the appropriate content. For example, if a chapter had Mac spanking Deacon (it doesn't, sorry), then when I posted that chapter, I would put a reminder to 'check the tags, please!' and lo and behold, there would be a 'spanking' tag. This way, readers can avoid problematic chapters without me having to spoil all the plotlines immediately.)

Deacon was elbows-deep in a turret when a flicker of motion caught his eye. A strip of paper connected to a trip wire fluttered in the air. Number five: Walt Whitman. Twenty-five feet out, at the alley. He wiped his hands off on a towel and stood up soundlessly. Drew his ten-millimeter, eased out the back door and around the side of the building. It wasn't long before he saw figures in the shadows. Female laughter, suppressed. Blue and someone else. Not Cait. What was she doing here? 

Deacon sighed and pointed his gun at the ground. He'd been kind of hoping that it would be a feral, something that he could kill. He'd heard that Jamaica Plains had seemed to have a never-ending supply of them at first. Blue and Mac had cleared the space and given MacCready's feral allergy, that must have been interesting, unless he'd been trying to hide it—but whatever. Don’t finish that thought. Why was he thinking about MacCready? _Stop it._ Instead, think about the fact that he was in a rotten mood and now he had visitors. 

Fifteen feet out. If he'd known that she'd be back this soon, then he wouldn't have volunteered to set up Mercer Safehouse for her. Blue dragged him into it because she owed MacCready some mysterious favor involving a medical (hospital?) run. Whatever. He hadn't paid attention to the details. He needed to stay busy, and if that kept about half of the Commonwealth between him and MacCready, that was just _awesome_. He frowned at the ground and suppressed the urge to kick something. 

Ten feet and closing. Neither of them had spotted him, crouched behind a trash can. Hmm. Blue really needed to be more observant. It was _convenient_ that he hadn't seen Mac since Bunker Hill, a month ago, when Mac had tried to kiss him... And Deacon had nearly let him. Deacon wasn't avoiding him. Nope. It had simply worked out that he hadn't seen, heard, or spoken to MacCready since Bunker Hill. They hadn't so much has been in the same _room._ Or settlement. Or city. 

Because when they were in the same settlement and he heard, oh for example, plans to travel to Bunker Hill, he had a distressing tendency to think of errands involving Bunker Hill. That was why not knowing the hospital's name had been essential. Otherwise, despite his best efforts, he might have ended up innocently walking by while Blue and MacCready tried to take out a bunch of super-mutants or something similarly suicidal and then he would have been forced to help him. Them. Help _them._

Five feet. He took three quick steps until he was even with them and said, "Hey, boss, doncha hate visitors that show up out of the blue? I mean, I haven't dusted or anything, and the floors, let's not talk about them." Piper squeaked , then clapped a hand over her mouth. 

Blue smiled and said, "Deacon, did you make a pun?" 

"Don’t get your hopes up," Deacon said drily. "It was purely accidental." 

He moved ahead of them down the alley, pointed to a splintered checkers board. "Go around that. Piper, don't kick that can, unless you have a grudge against that leg." 

Blue raised her eyebrows. "Overkill much on the traps, Deacon?" 

"Hey, it's a big mean world out there, pal, I’m just trying to do my small part." She stopped dead to stare at him. 

"Sheesh, you're so serious. Told the settlers days and days ago. There's not just one but two safe routes in, and they all know about them." 

She looked relieved, and he's reminded of that easy-to-read tally he'd given her a lifetime ago. Yeah. Knew a little better than that now. 

He followed them back to the Safehouse and waited while they started unloading, dumping supplies, ammo and junk on the floor. He didn't appreciate the break in his routine of programming, moping, not sleeping and not thinking about MacCready. Slipped out and reset his wire. Then considered staying out until they got tired of waiting for him and left. 

Piper was almost Deacon’s least favorite person in the whole wide world, even though he’d never ‘officially’ met her. Reporters and him went together like grenades and puppies. Which was to say, no sane person wanted to see _that_ mess. He leaned against the wall and shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants. If he took off, though, he'd have to deactivate the traps around the building and then shadow them out to reset. Hmmm...he could always use the shadowing practice. 

Blue stuck her head out of the door and saw him. "Deacon, don't even think about sneaking off. I want to talk to you." 

"Who, me? Sneak off? I would never, ever do that." 

He slunk back inside and sat down at the terminal that he'd connected to the turrets. Pulled up the programming. And another thing, not that he cared, like, at all, but if _Piper_ was with Blue, then where was--- Deacon decided that he really didn't need to know that. Live in the moment, pal. 

Blue had helped herself to his supplies and was munching on a snack cake. Piper was frowning into a cup of coffee. She looked up when he entered and then leaned over the table and stuck her hand out. "Nice to meet you, uh---?" 

Deacon ignored her and her hand dropped. Blue looked up from where she was sorting ammo on the floor and said, “Deacon, be nice. Piper, this is Deacon.” 

“Um, excuse me, that’s a _secret_ identity,” Deacon said. “It's on a need to know basis only.” He took a sip from his water bottle and avoided both their eyes. 

“Oh, right the Railroad guy,” Piper said, with way too much excitement. 

“Oh, right the nosy reporter chick!” Deacon replied with syrupy sweetness. Piper subsided instantly, but not before Blue gave him another look. He shrugged and gave her his most charming smile. “Piper, seriously, I kid, I kid. It's a pleasure to meet you." He went back to his terminal and started typing. "Sooo, uh, anyone else tagging along?” he said casually. 

The cold, calculating part of himself, the interior voice in his head that sometimes sounded like Dez or a snooty British butler, sighed and said, _Good show_ not _asking, Sir._

Blue stood up and brushed dust off the knees of her Vault suit. “Yeah, MacCready’s here. He’s taking a nap in the settlement.” 

Deacon missed a keystroke and the terminal started beeping at him. _Damn_ it. It took him three tries to turn it off, which was two more than it usually took. He looked up to see Blue and Piper exchanging glances. “Sorry, what? Totally didn’t hear you. I actually lost the hearing in that ear when I saved my baby brother from drowning. True story.” 

Blue rolled her eyes. “Yeah, Clarence, I saw the movie. Anyway, we just finished…uh, kind of a rough job. I’m glad we ran into you. This way, Piper and I don't have to wait for Mac and he can get some rest. You guys can head back together when you're done.” 

“Um, discúlpe, señora, no hablo inglés.” He looked back down at the terminal and was annoyed to see that he’d somehow lost several lines of code. _Sir appears to be distracted_ , snooty-butler-voice said. No. Maybe. A little. Okay, focus! He should check some more old tapes and try to improve his British accent. That was pretty atrocious. Wait, focus on the _program._ Pretend the turret is live, you have twenty seconds and go! 

“I’m serious, Deacon,” Blue repeated. 

“No comment,” he answered absently, typing. Code fix, _ta-da!_ Now only fifty-two hundred more lines! Ugh. He hated programming turrets, but with little whippersnappers running around Jamaica Plains, these had to be foolproof. 

Wait a minute. He looked up and saw Blue and Piper standing very close to each other. Piper murmured something and Blue nodded, touched her arm lightly. Then they both looked over at him. 

“Why? Where are you going?" he asked, leaning back and folding his arms. 

Blue stared right back. “Piper needs to get back to her little sister in Diamond City. And since you’re here, there's no reason for us to stay.” Great, it would have to be some foolproof excuse like that. Now he'd look like an asshole if he fussed. Well, so be it. 

"No fucking way, Blue." 

Piper made an apologetic noise. “Sorry, I know it’s not convenient—“ She pushed her hair behind her ears and dropped her eyes. 

“Piper, don’t say that,” Blue interrupted. She turned toward her and took her hand. “It’s fine. After all you've done for me, it's the least I can do.” Her thumb stroked over the back of Piper's hand, once, twice, and Piper flushed and smiled. 

Piper squeezed her hand back, looking up at her through her eyelashes. “Thanks, Blue.” Well, _that_ explained a few things. If he were polite, then he wouldn't mention it. 

Deacon cleared his throat. “I’m right here, guys. Sheesh. At least give me a chance to leave before you rip each other's clothes off.” 

Piper dropped Blue’s hand and turned pink. Blue slid an arm around her and stage-whispered, “Ignore him, Piper. He’s a synth, he doesn’t understand how humans interact.” 

“Oh, by interact, you mean sex. I get it,” Deacon said. “I totally get it.” Piper huffed a quick laugh and Blue looked amused. Wait a minute. Deacon frowned and replayed the words back in his head. Er…he hadn’t meant that to sound like... Shit. He was off his game. Severely so. 

Blue gave Piper a quick hug, and kissed her cheek. “Pipes, give us a minute.” Blue and her nicknames. Piper nodded, looking serious and left, pulling the door shut behind her. 

Blue leaned against the wall and folded her arms, looking expectant. "What?" He said. "I do so enjoy these little chats of ours." 

She looked at him pointedly. "Piper." 

"Piper's a reporter, partner. Not ever going to be comfortable around her. Speaking of which, you did warn her that she can't do any 'I met someone connected with the Railroad' pieces, right? Because that would be a shortcut to the kind of up-and-close-and-personal Institute interview that I don't think she wants." 

Blue shook her head. "Give her some credit, Deacon. She's not dumb at all. Do-gooder. Foolish idealist. Naïve maybe. But not dumb." 

"Aw, love is so cute." 

Blue frowned. "I almost forgot--something weird happened. Somehow, someone put mirelurk eggs in Danse's power armor." 

Deacon put one hand on his chest with a fake gasp. "You mean, he took it off? When?" 

She ignored that comment. "When he opened it, three mirelurk hatchlings jumped out and the smell from the unhatched eggs—yuck. Strong freaked out and started attacking the suit, Danse was hopping around trying to kill the hatchlings and got mad at Strong. It was a huge mess. I ended up having to send Strong to Hangman's Alley and Danse had to take his armor completely apart and clean and repair the whole thing." She frowned. "And it still stinks like mirelurk." 

Deacon listened attentively. That mental image of Strong and Danse was one he'd treasure. "Cute story. You should write it up for Piper, like a Brotherhood human interest piece." She looked at him skeptically and he did an exaggerated double-take. "You're not implying that I had anything to do with it, are you? I've been here the whole time!" 

She gave him a piercing look. "After the black ink on the scope trick, I'm starting to think that you have something against Danse." 

_Starting?_ Bless Blue's heart. She didn't even know that he'd paid off Mama Murphy to wash Danse's hood and jumpsuit in boiling water whenever he was in Sanctuary. So that it was sloowly shrinking, constricting his stupid, fat head, and hopefully making him think he was gaining way too much weight. That thought nearly made him smile and Blue's gaze sharpened. 

Deacon gave her his best innocent lamb look—hmm, tough crowd. "Not me, boss. Honest. But you know, nobody makes...friends the way Danse does. I'm probably only one of _dozens_ of folks who aren't his biggest fans." 

She opened up the box and grabbed another snack cake. She spoke through a mouthful of sugar: "Speaking of people that don't like Danse. Why are you avoiding MacCready?" 

The plain language made him wince. Then he turned the wince into a chuckle, not entirely successfully. _I've seen mole rats act better,_ Deacon, mental-Dez hissed. "I'm not avoiding anyone. I've—we've been busy, remember? I don’t have time to babysit MacCready, Blue. Not that he needs it.” 

"Is it because of, you know? Because I thought we were okay--" 

Deacon held up one hand. "Stop right there. Let's not go any further down that train of thought. You know better." 

"I guess you're right. It's not _me_ that you're avoiding. And this is more serious than you let on before." 

It wasn't a question. She raised her eyebrows silently, inviting him to disagree. He wanted to shift uncomfortably but instead, he put his chin on his fist. "No fair using your fancy tech, Blue." 

Blue snorted. "Says the guy wearing sunglasses." She hesitated and said, "Am I going to have to keep you guys separated, Deac? Or send one of you away? Because I really don't want to do that." 

That thought was ...concerning. He thought he could make a pretty good estimation what would happen if Blue felt coerced into that. Desdemona was going to kill him. He forced a smile. "Whoa, whoa, let's not talk about that, Blue. So maybe two of the crew don't get along. No big deal. I'll just hang out at Hangman's Alley with the rest of the Danse-appreciation society." 

Her lips thinned. "Like you would go. You haven't been to Sanctuary or anywhere in weeks." 

And that was true, and he couldn't think of any more good, bad or even so-so excuses. Especially since Desdemona had made it plain that Blue and her Institute revenge-scheme was supposed to be his top priority. He wondered, not for the first time, if he shouldn't just go back to HQ and tell Dez that he couldn't do this anymore. Hang around with this Losers' Club. Let Drummer Boy or hell, even Glory take over. Cait and Glory would probably get along great. 

Blue had been waiting patiently for him to speak, but now broke in on his thoughts. "You're not even going to say anything, Deacon? No lies? No wild stories?" 

He sighed heavily. "I'm making bricks without straw here, Blue." 

"All right, that tears it. Enough, Deacon." She came over and wrapped her arms around him loosely and squeezed. "Trust _me_ for once. Fix it. Take whatever time you need. Then the two of you—I don't care if it's together or separate but at least _talking_ \--come back to Sanctuary." She released him with one final squeeze and headed over to the door. "You'll see, it's for the best." 

"Says the person who literally two weeks ago said no relationships for her." 

She fiddled with her laser rifle and smiled down at it. "Maybe I changed my mind." Then she looked up. "As for you, you lie to everyone, right?" Then she closed the door quietly behind her. 

He turned back to the turret, cleaning and oiling the pieces and putting it back together on auto-pilot. What was that supposed to mean? He wasn't lying to himself, he knew straight up that he needed to stay away from MacCready. And fix what? He was…fine, moping and not sleeping aside. MacCready was fine, and the last time he saw him they were able to talk _just fine_. Granted that had been three weeks, six days and about, um, fourteen hours, but still. He finished the turret and clicked his terminal on, stared at the lines of code blankly. Blue and Piper were fine, although it looked like things were a little more serious than a booty call, from the way that she'd reacted. All of them were totally, completely one-hundred-percent fine. 

The terminal beeped and rebooted itself, making him jump. Then Deacon got up, grabbed his pack and bolted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *discúlpe, señora, no hablo inglés = Sorry, ma'am, I don't speak English.
> 
> This story resulted from the following random thought: I bet MacCready is really good with kids. Like, they probably follow him around. I bet that would bug Deacon, since he's got that kid/baby angst going on. That sounds fun to write! Okay, I do already have the other three fics in the series half-finished and I can't see where that would fit in anywhere, but what the heck. It can be a fun little interlude between two and three.
> 
> Just a _quick_ throwaway _one shot_. Famous last words, amiright?


	2. Whatcha want from me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost done with setup and shit's gonna start happening! Not sure if I should tag for excessive Deacon inner monologue. Sorry!

Deacon was at the military checkpoint outside town when he realized that the Caretaker would arrive in a few days to his nifty new Safehouse. And then promptly get killed by Deacon's traps or a malfunctioning turret. 

Okay, Dez would be mad, but seriously? It wasn't like that guy wasn't living on borrowed time already. _Like we all are_ , mental-Dez commented. Yeah. Right. He dragged himself back reluctantly and got to work. The fact that his concentration was shot was yet another thing to lay at MacCready’s door. Who never showed up. At his door. 

After a marathon session that left him with an aching head, he finally finished everything. Traps? Check. On the way back from the checkpoint, he'd diagrammed the layout and left it at the nearest dead drop. If the Caretaker didn't check that, then he deserved to get blown to bits. Supplies, ammo, basic furniture? Check. Turrets, carefully coded to exclude settlers, traders, and pipsqueaks less than four feet tall? Check. Also, programmed to exclude Blue and all her companions, even fathead Danse. And MacCready... 

He wrote a quick list of passwords for the Caretaker and pinned it to the wall above the silent tripwires. He'd already checked them twice to see if any were malfunctioning. They weren't. No one had come this way. He stretched and debated grabbing his pack and walking. It was about four in the morning and he liked nighttime travel. But in the end, he lay down on a mattress and thought about all the reasons why he needed to get back to HQ. Tried to convince himself that MacCready's absence meant that he'd gone on already, probably following Blue and Piper. Finally, he fell asleep. 

The next day he walked—well, snuck using a Stealth Boy—over to the settlement and almost immediately spotted MacCready. So much for that theory. He didn't look _that_ bad—a little worn and tired. Except for bloodstained bandages wrapped around one leg, which pissed Deacon off. Jesus Christ, this crap is why he gets sucked into helping him—her—them. She couldn't keep her damn backup intact for a _week._ And don’t she and Piper know basic first aid? He suppressed the urge to stealth over and toss a few stimpaks at Mac's feet. Even if Blue was an idiot, shouldn't the settlement have offered medical help? Outrageous. He should complain. To...someone. 

MacCready didn't seem to be going anywhere in particular, just wandering around. He was back in his usual clothes, fifteen various layers of shirts, duster, hat, and probably enough weapons to take down a small army. Walking well enough, despite the bandages. So, the lack of MacCready's presence at Mercer must be because Blue had left out some important intel. Like where it was. Obviously, he should walk over, surprise him and make with the talking. Travel back to Sanctuary. All nice and neat and easy. That was what Blue expected. 

Blue could go fly a fucking kite. 

By the time his Stealth Boy clicked off, he’d found an observation post in an old church with good sightlines. 

Deacon had learned to be cautious the hard way. Approaching MacCready cold...no. He needed to come up with the right words...the right _lies_ first. Simple, easy to remember, not emotional and—and— _Stop the mental hysterics, Deacon,_ mental-Dez commented drily. 

Right. Well, then. Deacon sat down in the corner and considered Jamaica Plains. Walking out there. In the open. To MacCready. He'd notice him before he got close. He had the utmost respect for the sniper's observation skills. 

MacCready and probably half the settlers would be watching him. 

'Hey, MacCready.' 

Imaginary-MacCready folded his arms silently. 'Uh...Long time no see,' Deacon said weakly. 

Scornful look. Justified. That was pretty lame. 'Where have you been? Thought we had a date,' Mac asked. Yeah, that would be like him, to go straight for the jugular. One thing about MacCready that you either hated or admired, he wasn't afraid to ask awkward questions. The stuff that everyone else (Deacon) was dancing around? Mac would say it. Into any available pause in the conversation. 

'Yeah. I mean, no. I mean. I've been really really busy?' Real-Deacon put a hand over his eyes and groaned silently. Try again. 

'Look, MacCready,' sympathetic smile, a little sad. 'Dez yanked me. Said I'm getting too close to...to you. I had to back off.' Hesitated. 'I'm sorry.' Oh god. No, no, no. Way too fucking close to the truth. Deacon felt a curl of nausea in his stomach. Try again. 

Sad, somber look. 'We lost another safehouse.' Big sigh. 'More agents missing. We're in big trouble, MacCready, we're deep in the red.' 

Imaginary-MacCready looked concerned, stepped forward and touched his arm. 'Man, I'm sorry to hear that, Deacon. Anything I can do?' Looking into his face, his eyes, so clear and blue and Deacon wanted to reach out to him, his shoulder maybe or his hip and pull him closer and.... 

Shit. Again. 

Easy yet distant smile. 'I was abducted. By Oberon, King of the Fairies. He's hot stuff, let me tell you. Anyway, time doesn't pass the same way in the fairy realm—it only felt like I was there for a few hours.' 

Imaginary-MacCready looked confused and then angry. 'Thought we were past that.' 

'Past what?' Deacon said coolly. 

MacCready frowned and looked down. 'Nothing. Whatever, Deacon. Fine. You ready? Let's go.' Strode off ahead of him, not looking back. 

Real-Deacon hunched his shoulders and put his head in his hands. Yeah. That would be a perfectly acceptable outcome—walking behind MacCready for a day to get back to Sanctuary, while he pointedly ignored him.... Which, frankly, was what he deserved anyway. The only problem was-- 

Imaginary-Deacon can only take the silent treatment for a couple of hours before he walks closer to MacCready to chat—about literally _anything_ to break the tension. The landscape, the wildlife, the plotlines of three hundred year old books--he never had told Mac the story of _The Hound of the Baskervilles..._ Getting MacCready to look at him, even to smile. Eventually he winds down into grabbing MacCready's shoulder. 'Look, MacCready—I'm sorry.' Then it played out pretty predictably... Concerned look, stepping closer, wanting to touch him, touching him... _Fuck._

The trouble was that he was better at being a short-term lying asshole and then making a quick escape. Being an asshole continuously for the day or two that it would take to get back to Sanctuary... That was problematic. He had gotten out of practice, hanging around Blue. She saw through his lies almost immediately. Hancock and Cait just laughed. Nick assumed everything he said was Railroad business and never got pissy about it. And MacCready—somehow he'd stopped lying to MacCready. Even at Bunker Hill—he'd lied...what, once? And he was pretty sure that Mac had spotted it. 

_The real problem is you're already too attached, Deacon,_ mental-Dez said sternly. _End it._

Okay, try again. 

Imaginary-Deacon is colder than before. "Sorry, but there's no more room in my life for a fuck-buddy," he said harshly. 

Imaginary-MacCready's face is shocked and then hurt. But then: Blue's face is shocked—and angry. _I told you to fix it, not...whatever the hell that was!_ And Piper, and Nick and Hancock, and oh crap, now it's not just his own life that he's fucking up but an entire set of contacts, sources and Railroad personnel. 

His throat tightened until he could hardly breathe. _You're a fraud, Deacon, you're worthless, you should just fucking kill yourself now and save someone the bullet..._

A flicker of motion from the window caught his eye. MacCready had come back out into the courtyard. One of the settler kids was tagging after him. He paused, looking southward over the wastes and Deacon wondered if he was looking for him. He put one hand on the glass of the window and thought about walking out with no prepared speech, nothing but an 'I'm sorry.' And then just letting it play out. See what happened. He swallowed hard. Tried to make himself get up, but he was frozen in place. He couldn't do it. He just..couldn't. 

MacCready sat down cross-legged on the ground—no grimace of pain, so maybe that leg was okay after all—and drew a knife and started poking at a toy car. Tightening the screws or something. His movements were deft, economical and Deacon remembered a knife in those hands, a quick flick and his pants falling open. He shook his head as if he could physically push the memory away. The boy, dark-haired, maybe four or so, watched and then leaned forward and draped himself over MacCready’s back like a blanket. Deacon felt a twinge of envy that the kid got to touch him. Skinny little arms wrapped around MacCready’s neck and his chin on MacCready’s shoulder, with every evidence of comfort. 

Most settlement kids reminded Deacon of cats, wary and aloof, hiding behind the adults and peeking out at him uneasily. They were never that comfortable around him and vice versa. But MacCready seemed to like the little boy's weight. Straightened and just carried on, his shoulders relaxed and easy. Deacon would be lying to himself, and he tried to not lie to himself in his own head, with nobody but himself and Dez and the Brit to hear, if he didn’t admit that he found it.... pretty damn neat. 

And....other things. Things that he did not want to examine too closely, especially not now of all fucking times. Allowing yourself a few evasions was sometimes necessary for your mental health, and right now, he was barely keeping it together. He didn't need any more evidence of how generally awesome Robert Joseph MacCready was. 

Mental-Dez commented that he should probably get the hell out, preferably without speaking to MacCready or even letting him know that he was here. Head back to HQ. Continue to keep some distance between them. 

Mental-Dez could also go fly a fucking kite. 

He took a sip from his water bottle, wished briefly that it was whiskey, and kept watching. Another of the settlement children, an older blonde girl that looked familiar, rounded the corner and saw them. He'd probably seen her when he'd been in the settlement talking to the adults. In a flash, Blondie dropped the basket of tatos that she was carrying and scooted to look over MacCready’s _other_ shoulder. Then leaned on him with most of her weight, if the way Mac slumped was any indication. 

MacCready looked up with a smile and said something to Blondie that Deacon was too far away to hear and showed her the toy car. 

Yet another one came scampering across the road and made a beeline for the group. Jesus, he’d known there were kids in Jamaica Springs, but this many? The latest was a tiny brunette girl, with sparkling dark eyes and dimples. When he got a clear look at her, Deacon felt his hand clench on the water bottle and nearly dropped it. 

The tiny one crawled into MacCready’s lap like she belonged there while he held his arms out to accommodate her. And then he settled back down with the toy, and three children hanging on him, like it was just another day. No big deal. 

Deacon turned away from the broken window and walked to the back of the church. Interesting. Yeah. Maybe he should head back to the Safehouse, finish that—oh. It was done. Mercer Safehouse was done and although Dez had asked him to, he didn’t need to wait until the Caretaker arrived. He should go—go on an extended run for tapes to improve his British accent. Silky curls, dimples, he wasn't thinking about this now.... He should go—anywhere as long as it wasn't Jamaica Plains. Deacon punched the wall. And then again. Again. The skin of his knuckles split and started leaving red marks. 

_Shall we see if Sir can spell out, 'fuck you MacCready' with Sir's blood?_ Brit-butler asked. 

When he was calm enough to check on the scene again, one of the settlement folks was shooing the children away from MacCready, and apparently apologizing to him. The little boy was carrying the toy car reverently, like it was the most awesome toy car ever. MacCready was stiff and closed-off while the adult talked to him, which was a marked difference from his relaxation around the kids. MacCready nodded and then turned away and walked over to the low stone wall that bordered the central area. Stood there alone on the edge of the settlement for a few minutes, hands in pockets, looking out towards the southern swamplands. Then he sat down on the wall and rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. His shoulders slowly sagged, his head dropped, and his back curved in dejection. Stayed that way for several minutes, wiping his eyes occasionally. And then he straightened up, visibly squared his shoulders and walked off. 

Deacon was up on his knees and he didn’t remember moving. He watched MacCready disappear around the corner of the biggest building and started to get to his feet. Then sank back. _You don’t know that was about you_. Could be anything. Something to do with Duncan. His stomach twisted. If it was, then it was bad news. There was no way he could leave now. Damn it. _Damn it_. 

_It appears to me, Sir, that Sir_ is _screwed_ , said his snotty rational-self. 

Only the pain in his knuckles—seriously, ow, ow, ow!--kept him from punching the wall some more, on _principle_. 

He caught sight of MacCready again, after lunch. Blondie was hanging on his duster and chattering at him. Later, it was the little boy tagging after him with a comic book until MacCready stopped, crouched down and read it to him. Every time, Deacon felt like he’d been struck, like a punch to the ol’ chest. The tiny girl tripped and fell and MacCready picked her up and brushed off her teeny little jeans. She laughed and squirmed while he did it and he set her back on her feet gently. She was wearing the smallest sneakers that Deacon had ever seen. Deacon ached, watching them. Kept having thoughts that he…couldn’t have. Ever. God, the pain in his chest. Nah, he could handle it, it wasn't too bad...it was just... A giant, hollowed-out _cavern of agony_. Shit. 

He was stuck. Absolutely stuck because he could not do it, go talk to him, no matter what Blue or Dez or anyone wanted.... Every instinct of self-preservation that he had said that approaching MacCready while cute kids hung on him would…not go well. He clenched his fists again, and grimaced. Ouch. 

Rational-self pointed out that he hadn’t been to the Capital Wasteland in a while, and he could always go and check it out for a few months. Or a few years. It was telling that Deacon seriously considered it for a while. 

As the long hellish afternoon ground into what promised to be an equally hellish evening, Deacon didn’t witness any more down episodes from MacCready. He’d take the only positive that he could get. He’d about decided that that meant he could flee Jamaica Plains with a clean conscience and fuck what Blue wanted when he noticed someone walking down the eastern street. A man wrapped up in a knit hat and a loose hood, scarf and goggles, so that Deacon couldn't get a clear look at his face. Hmm... Only suspicious characters covered their faces like that. Deacon should know. Unremarkable clothing, so he couldn't tell if he was one of the settlers or not. He was walking fast, with quick looks over one shoulder. Very questionable. 

Something that would take his mind off MacCready. Maybe give him a good reason to shadow this guy, hopefully across the Commonwealth and far away from here. But instead of going down the street, the man turned and headed for the church. There was nowhere to hide; the settlers had stripped it thoroughly. Deacon barely had time to scoot back into the stairwell. Once he was out of sight, a shadow fell across the door. Then a second shadow. They had a low-voiced conversation which Deacon strained to hear but only caught a few fragments. 

"… two?" 

"...sorry....two hundred..." 

"...right ….one.." 

"….tonight...watching..." 

"...good...guard...no trouble." 

After the short conversation, the first man headed back toward the settlement. Something about his walk struck Deacon as familiar. The other waited and smoked a cigarette and then left out a broken window on the side. Deacon didn't like the look of him. Shady. Maybe a little raider-riffic. 

The whole thing was… interesting. Sounded like someone was conducting some back-alley commerce. For what? Weapons? Moonshine? It couldn't be anything to do with the Railroad, they didn’t have any local tourists—which was the whole point of Mercer Safehouse. When the Caretaker arrived, it would be his job to recruit a few. But just because it wasn't Railroad didn't mean that Deacon couldn't hang around and see what he could find out. 

It got late and the settlement started going to bed. A few folks sat around under the flickering lights and drank beer, talking. MacCready sat on the low brick wall that went around one side, looking out over the wastes. Again. And the gaping cavern of agony shivered, a few stalactites fell and it got perceptibly larger. 

Next to him was his shadow, the little blonde girl. She was cleaning a pipe pistol with Mac’s help. After a little more time passed, MacCready seemed to give up. Ruffled Blondie's hair and then peeled the little dark-haired boy off one leg. Picked him up and handed him off to a younger woman, strikingly pretty. Probably his mom. She lingered, apparently thanking him. Then she put one hand on his shoulder, at the curve of his neck, and leaned closer. Going in for a kiss, what the fuck? When had this started? 

MacCready adroitly half-turned his head and she ended up kissing his cheek. Deacon was uncomfortably aware of leaning too far forward and being too exposed. If one of the settlers glanced over... He moved back into the shadows, still watching them. _What did you think would happen when you ignored him for a month?_ Mental-Dez asked. Despite that, MacCready smiled politely, no warmer than he usually was with random settlers, and turned back to Blondie. 

After helping Blondie reassemble her pistol, MacCready glanced over his shoulder after Mom walked away, and Deacon wondered if he would change his mind. Instead, he trudged off to the guest cabin and the lights went off. The remaining kiddos were gathered up, Blondie and the tiny brunette, who could run amazingly fast on those little legs, and soon enough the central area was quiet and still. The guard outpost was on the road and out of sight from here. 

Deacon waited patiently as the hours ticked slowly by. No sign of any illicit activity. Tired farmers don't lie awake, not even couples getting their groove on. The moonlight was bright enough that he could read a little, checking the window frequently. When he finally saw the door of the main building open, he straightened up and peered intently through the gloom. 

He didn't see who--or what-- he was expecting. It wasn't the shady settler or his equally-shady compatriot. 

It was seven-year-old Blondie. _Alone._

Oh shit.


	3. Tried to buy your pretty heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the tags. Archive warnings have not and will not change.

Blondie yawned and glanced around. She was wearing the same clothing as earlier—jeans and a pale pink tee with ruffles. The pink glowed in the night like a beacon. Her pigtails were out and her hair lay in soft waves over her shoulders. She looked up at the dark sky, lit faintly by the half-full moon, and rubbed her eyes. Then she walked out into the street and hesitated, looking both directions as if she were waiting for someone. 

Deacon had never seen any settlement children out alone. Granted he had never been spying on a settlement at midnight, but still. Generally, the kids were cossetted and protected, kept tightly within the inner areas. Kept away from strangers, traders, messengers. MacCready was a surprising exception. 

He wondered if he should yell for the adult on duty at the guard post. But if he did that, would she run off? How fast could a seven-year-old run, anyway? He didn't know. But the settlement as a whole only occupied a small southern portion of the Pre-war town. If she was half as fast as the tiny girl, she'd be able to get lost in the maze of empty houses pretty quick. Maybe he should follow her and look for an opportunity to grab her and bring her bodily back to the adults. That would mean seeing MacCready. Having that conversation that he still hadn't figured out to handle. But it didn't matter. He couldn't just let her wander off into the swamplands, Mac—not to mention Blue and the settlers—would never forgive him. 

She finally turned south and started walking toward the edge of the settlement. She kicked a loose stone and he winced at the clatter it made. The wastes around the settlement were full of 'lurks, ghouls and worse. He had to do something before she attracted hostile attention. She came even with the church and he went to the door and cracked it open. "Psst." 

Her head jerked around and her eyes lit up. She ran over to the door and pulled it open. She stepped inside and saw him and all the joy fell off her face. Looked around the church, dimly lit by moonlight. "Where is he?" 

Deacon stared at her. She'd come inside so easily that now he felt ridiculous for over-thinking. He crouched down to her level and brought a finger to his lips. "Shhhh. Who?" 

Her face turned sullen. "MacCready. I'm sposed to meet him." She stomped one little foot. "Where is he?" 

He stared at her in confusion. He couldn't believe that MacCready would have told her something so dangerous. He wouldn't believe it. She must have misunderstood him. He thought back to when MacCready had gone to bed, ruffling her hair, walking off. He didn't even remember seeing Maccready speak to her, other than obviously short comments about her pipe pistol. "MacCready told you that?" he asked. 

She scowled at him and looked down and shuffled her feet. Stuck a finger in her mouth. Dragged one foot over the laces of her other sneaker until the carefully tied bow came undone and straggled over the wooden floor. 

Wait a minute. He was no kid expert, but... "MacCready didn’t tell you that," he said experimentally. 

She huffed but didn't dispute it. Well, that made more sense. Flash of green eyes as she glanced up through her straggly bangs. "Not sposed to talk to strangers," she muttered. 

Oh, _now_ she remembered that. "You need to get back to bed, Blondie," he said, trying to sound like someone who told kids to go to bed every day. 

That provoked a rebellious look. "Why?" 

He tried for parent-like sternness. "Because I said so?" 

She folded her arms and looked him up and down. He was clearly being found wanting. Her light eyebrows drew together. "Who are you?" 

Er...Johan. Howard. Dave the trader. He floundered, grasping for a name that would mean something to her and said, "I'm MacCready's friend—I'm, I'm Deacon." 

She frowned. "Deek--you're the one that he was watching for! You're _late!_ Where you been?" Her tone was sharp and accusatory. It was a lot like he'd imagined Mac's would sound like and it stung. 

He started to open his mouth and say something like, _Hey, I've been really busy, okay,_ when he realized that he didn't actually have to explain. Why did he suddenly feel the need to justify himself? Fuck. Out-manipulated by a seven-year-old. "None of your business," he said instead, feeling unsettled. Deacon wasn't sure whether he was annoyed or flattered that MacCready had mentioned him to the little brat. 

"Enough," he announced. "I'm taking you back to bed." 

Her lower lip pouched out. He frowned and opened the door firmly, trying to demonstrate that he wasn't tolerating any more shenanigans. She hitched a big sigh and took his hand. "Can't we go see Mac first?" she said in a wheedling tone. "Please?" 

He glanced down and saw where her fine blonde hair was mussed and matted on the back of her head. That was...endearing. And she liked MacCready, so she obviously had good taste. Maybe going to the guest shack wasn't such a bad idea. This one's parents were bound to take her return from MacCready better than from him. He didn't want to get shot by an excited dad. And afterwards, he would be the actual nice guy who had redirected this wayward child. Mac was bound to appreciate that. Mental-Dez and Brit are grumbling in the back of his head, but he felt too cheerful to listen. Look, this wasn't his choice. He _had_ to take her to MacCready. 

She looked up, apparently encouraged by his silence. "Please?" she said again. "He really wants to see you, he said _where is that stupid jerk Deacon_." She pitched her voice lower to imitate MacCready and smiled at him hopefully. He couldn't resist smiling back. She was pretty cute. 

He looked cautiously up and down the street before stepping out of the church. He heard a brahmin lowing somewhere in the distance. Alarm jangled along his nerves and he pulled her back into the church before he'd fully comprehended the reason for his reaction. He let the door close and then it came to him. Jamaica Plains didn't have a brahmin. It was too late for a trader to be out. Whose brahmin was it, and why was it close enough to hear when one of their precious children had suddenly decided to take an evening stroll? 

"What are we--" she began in a protesting voice. 

"Get down," he ordered, dropping her hand. He had carved a wedge earlier and now he picked it up and pushed it between the door and the jamb. A homemade lock, low tech but effective. He eased over to the window and looked out. Nothing—and no one—in sight. He looked over at her and she was still standing by the door, blinking at him. "Who told you to meet MacCready?" he asked. 

Her eyes slid away from his and her bony shoulders hunched. She stuck her thumb in her mouth. "I wanna go see Mommy," she mumbled around the digit. 

This time he could decode the signs. "It's all right. You won't get in trouble," he whispered as patiently as possible. Flicker of motion to his right and he jerked his head around. Still nothing. But something was telling him that danger lurked in the quiet silvery moonlight. His instincts said to keep hidden, but it wasn't like Jamaica Plains was that big. Someone searching for a kid would think of the church pretty quickly. He needed more information. 

She didn't answer. "Blondie," he began again. 

She scowled angrily and interrupted. "That's not my name!" She sat down with a thump and leaned back against the door. Deacon caught her eye and put a finger in front of his lips in exasperation. Yao guai were stealthier than this kid. 

He couldn't hear any movements or footsteps, but someone was likely hearing them. He turned and surveyed the interior. Too many broken windows on the lower level. It made it impossible for him to watch them all. They were sitting ducks. Upstairs? You couldn’t get to the house from the church and there was no bell tower. So that was literally a dead end. Outside the church was...too open. Anyone from half a dozen spots could get them. Damn it. He didn't know what the hell he was doing. If he were alone, he would head upstairs and move out onto the roof. He didn't dare do that with her. He needed _MacCready_ , he wished he were here, with his quick sniper's eye and his steadiness. 

He crouched in front of her. "Okay, what's your name?" he whispered. He pulled out his gun and loaded it quickly, wishing for something a little louder. If worst came to worst, Deliverer was too quiet to wake up any reinforcements. 

"Gail," she whispered back. 

“Okay, Gail.” he stared at her to see if she was appreciating his use of her actual real correct name—“who told you to come out here tonight?” 

Her chest hitched alarmingly and she burst out crying. “Allen!” Allen, the settlement leader. The guy that he'd first gone to talk to about the Safehouse defenses. Something had seemed off at the time, he had been aware of it, but not able to pin it down. He'd shrugged and left it alone, assuming that his subconscious would dig it out sooner or later. Oh, this was bad. He had to get her back to the others—no, no telling who else might be compromised. He had to get her to MacCready. The guest shack wasn't far; they'd make a run for it. He snatched Gail up in one arm, gun in the other and whirled toward the door, opened his mouth to yell. 

And then Deacon heard a low humming _snap_ , a sickeningly familiar sound that reminded him of ruined monuments and dead-eyed children, but before he could turn around, move or even twitch, the world dissolved into silver mist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting ready for a one eighty into darkness. Meantime, I don't write OCs very often, hopefully you liked Gail!


	4. The price too high

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the tags! (No warnings for rape because there is NO rape)

Deacon didn't faint or lose unconsciousness...exactly. Instead he was standing in silver mist, relaxed and still. With no desire to move. Just... waiting. His mind felt moored in molasses, moving so slowly. 

A faint stirring of sensation against his chest and he looked down. There was a young girl in his arms, rubbing her eyes. She looked up at him, her gaze wavering oddly. "I feel funny." Her words slipped away like smoke before he could make heads or tails of them. 

Strangely accented words within his mind. _...she must have been on the edge of the area of effect..._ He considered them vaguely, unsure of the meaning, but aware that the voice brought a feeling of comfort. An exclamation close by. _That_ he heard. He looked around and finally found the source. 

There was a face looking at him. Brown beard, brown hair and a boxy weapon in his hand. The sight of the...gun? made his heart speed and a sickly clammy sweat break out on his forehead. The stranger was climbing through a window. He scowled at Deacon and Deacon's arms tightened around the little girl. Most of him was placidly waiting for a command, any command, but on the edge of his awareness a frantic struggle was taking place, as if a radstag were caught by one leg. 

"Damn it. Do you have any idea how expensive those cells are? I'm gonna take that outta your hide." Deacon stared at him blankly. The stranger shook his head and held out his arms. "Give the girl to me." 

The voice was nigh irresistable; he was dismayed. Deacon turned around to face the stranger and the girl cast a quick glance over her shoulder and then tried to wrap her arms around him. He lifted her toward the other man and she twisted, grabbing his forearms with a panicky strong grip. 

"No! No, I don't wanna! Don't let me go! Deek!" 

Her words upset his calm equilibrium and he hesitated, started to step away. _No, no, he couldn't do it._ The bearded man said, raising his voice, "I said, give her to me." He found himself turning without any volition of his own. He had to pull her little arms loose from his waist. Then he handed the child over while she tried to cling to his wrists, with a sick feeling of misery curdling in his stomach. The stranger looked down at her. "Go to sleep," he snapped and Deacon swayed, dark waves of fatigue lapping at his mind. 

The stranger made a noise of annoyance. "Not you." He directed his next words to her, the girl—Gail, whispered a voice in his mind's back room. "Sleep." She went limp. Her eyelids fluttered and one small hand twitched. The stranger set her down on the floor and frowned at Deacon. 

"Who are you?" 

That was an easy answer. Deacon felt relief that he could satisfy the other so simply. "I'm no one," he said. He had names, of course, unimportant names that he used...but the truth was that he was no one. He was...background music. Not important and easily forgotten. That was how he had designed it because it was all that he deserved. 

The stranger looked exasperated and Deacon's relief dissolved. "Why are you here then?" 

Confusion. Noises at the back of his head, like some other person was trying to give him advice. Pictures in his mind. A dank mausoleum, filled with people, bustling with purpose. Another is a short mercenary with a quick clever face. Last were...ghouls. Feral ghouls. As if to help the voice in his head whispers, _stick to the cover story, Deacon: nest of feral ghouls._

He managed to say "Hunting ferals?" Hoping that makes sense and that the man was satisfied. 

The other snorted laughter, but there wasn't any real humor in the sound. "With that peashooter? Guess no one'll be looking for you then." The man came close and looked him over piercingly. Then he seemed to come to a decision and shrugged. "Might as well take you, too." 

The man pulled his sunglasses off his face and stuck them in a pocket. The slaver smiled and touched his short red hair. Deacon hadn't bothered shaving his head while he was working on Mercer. "Nice. Unusual." 

He came closer and lifted Deacon's shirt up to his shoulders. Ran his hands over his chest. "Not bad." He found his shoulder holster and unbuckled it. Then plucked the gun from his hand. "Decent mods. That'll fetch a pretty cap." Deacon wanted to protest—the gun was important somehow, but the accented voice was back, whispering: _Don't give him a reason to hurt you._

The slaver's movements were brisk and business-like. He pulled Deacon's belt loose and tossed it into his pack. Coiled and stored the shoelaces from his shoes. Searched his pockets and found the knives at his ankle and the small of his back. But then he surveyed Deacon's body, head to toe and Deacon felt alarm, resignation, fear. Even with his mind slow and hobbled, he recognized that look. The slaver knelt down and felt up each leg, slowly. And then between them, lingering, while Deacon tried to clench his fists, to move away or attack and failed at them all. 

The slaver looked into Deacon's face and smiled as if what he saw pleased him. "You're almost too cute to sell," he said, licking his lips with his thick tongue. "I think I'd like to see you on your knees, with my cock stretching those pretty lips. Spread those long legs and bend you over a table so I can fuck you. Or tied up and gagged, until you’re begging me." 

Revulsion and despair. The feelings are distant, as if locked behind a glass door. He can see them and know they're there, he just can't feel them. Not yet. The mist churned and closed in tighter, vanishing the girl _(Gail)_ from his sight. 

The slaver glanced down his body. "Move your legs apart." Deacon struggled to stay still and failed again. The slaver reached out to his waistband and pulled on it, just a little, toying with him. Then he said, "I see that anger you're trying to hide. What, the thought of being my little cock-slut doesn't get you off?" 

He moved closer, eyes greedily charting Deacon's body. Then there was a noise from outside the church, like a footfall and the slaver's head jerked to the door. He moved to the window, looking alarmed. Then he glanced over his shoulder with a scowl. "Goddamnit. Sleep." 

Blackness. 

Deacon slowly returned to a world that was the texture, shape, and color of a pack-brahmin. He was tied across its back, his view of the world a disorienting upside down. Every muscle in his body ached. His throat hurt. The brahmin took a jarring step that made his bones rattle. He remembered the mist and sour saliva flooded his mouth. No bitter taste in his mouth—and a quick survey of his body revealed no—unusual aches or pains. Faint sense of relief along with the sobering knowledge that it was only a brief reprieve. He yanked at his wrists but they were secured somehow. "Stop," he managed to say, but his voice was no louder than a whisper. 

Gail's face came into his field of vision, walking next to the brahmin with her wrists tied with a rope that led to his. Tear-streaks on her dirty cheeks, eyes reddened. "You're awake," she said dully. Tears spilled out from her eyes. "He told you to hand me over and you did!" 

Oh god. She'd been clinging to him and he'd just...done what he was told. That fucking mesmetron. Nice to know that he had no hidden reserves of heroism, just additional unplumbed depths of cowardice. Fuck, Deacon, you're _worthless._ He wanted to bury his head into the brahmin's side and hide from her gaze but he didn't deserve that respite. 

"I'm sorry," he told her heavily. "That gun scrambles your head. I—I couldn't help it." He couldn't? Yeah, _sure,_ Deacon, tell us another. There wasn't any technology that humans couldn't pervert into a weapon or a tool of domination, but there were plenty of natural cowards. Which came first? 

Deacon shook his head. Whatever. It wasn't like the fact that he was worthless scum was record-breaking news. Gail. He needed to look out for her. "Go tell the guy leading the brahmin that I'm awake." 

Her eyes got wide and fearful. "I can't. If I do, this thing sparks and it hurts." She pushed her hair back to show a slave collar. One of the more sophisticated shock ones, at least, not the kind that simply exploded your head. Deacon could feel the pinch of another around his neck every time he swallowed or spoke. That didn't make the nausea any better. He took a deep brahmin-scented breath through his nose and thumped its side as hard as he could. The beast began obediently turning right. 

"Whoa, whoa!" Someone yelled. Gail's head whipped around and she whimpered and tried to scoot closer to Deacon. 

It wasn't really a surprise when the slaver that he'd seen in the mist stopped in front of him, eyes appraising. "Hey, handsome. So you're back with us." 

It wasn't a surprise, per se, but it sure wasn't the best outcome that he could have wished for. 

"Yeah, yay, I guess. Did you have any idea that thing just explodes heads about thirty percent of the time or is that part of the appeal? Along with the rapey-ness." 

The slaver smiled in apparent amusement but his eyes were flinty. "You keep opening that mouth and you'll tempt me," he said lightly. "But let me reassure you--lower the intensity and increase the duration, from thirty seconds to about ten minutes and it cuts the risk to five percent. Feel better?" 

He patted Deacon's cheek and tried to stick his finger in his mouth. Deacon set his jaw tightly. The other man laughed. "Have it your way." 

"Take the girl back," Deacon offered evenly. "And I'll do whatever you want." 

The man folded his arms and shook his head. "No piece of ass is worth that. Now, you be good until we get to our stopping point," He slapped Deacon's back, hard. "You can do that, right? Be a _good_ boy." He laughed nastily, while Deacon stared down at the ground and tried not to think. At all. Especially not about the future. No one would know where they went. Hell, no one even knew that he'd been at Jamaica Plains, except for Blue. She'd get around to checking on him eventually. In a couple of weeks. But if he disappeared without a trace, she was likely to think 'Institute' not 'Nuka-World slavers'. His cowardice had fucked them over good and proper, because if he'd gone to talk to MacCready when he had a chance....

The slaver retied his wrists tighter. "There. No more messing with th' Brahmin." He slapped the animal's side and yelled, "Haw!" 

It was too hard to keep his head anything close to upright, especially with his wrists painfully extended and tight against the animal. Deacon tried not to think about how that might end up being a metaphor for his experience with slavery in general. Too hard to keep your dignity. Too hard to fight. Too hard to stay sane. How long before he started wishing the collars exploded—he let his head droop and fought down another surge of nausea. Not long, he bet. Not long at all. 

He sighed. Wanting to die wasn't anything new for him. He should be used to it by now. Just part of his mental background noise, like Dez and the Brit. Looked like Karma was going to bitch-slap him again, though. Instead of a quick clean death, he was in for an extended long hard dirty bout of _suck_. Most likely literal as well as descriptive. He closed his eyes and struggled to keep his composure. He wasn't the only one suffering--he had to try. Just then, Gail slipped her small cold hand between his and he clutched it tightly, like a lifeline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sniff*  
> (If you're mad, let me know or come yell at me on lurea.dreamwidth.org)


	5. Can we burn something, babe?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so happy that people are reading! I was worried this was too dark and too long.... thank you for the comments and kudos, so so much.

MacCready dreamed about Duncan. The way he'd been before he'd gotten sick, when he was more like Jason, or Gail or little baby Maria. He played, he asked endless questions. The cure was working, he's not completely healed, but he's so so much better. He's there, following Red around like he used to follow Lucy...or himself. He doesn't even notice MacCready, let alone run over yelling, "Daddy!" Only three when he'd left for the Commonwealth and now four and a couple of months. He's lost him. Been gone too long and now his own son doesn't even remember him. 

He can't even hate Red or Joseph or any of the others. Maybe it's for the best. They're probably better for him than MacCready. Did MacCready even have the right to take him away from everything that he's ever known? Expose him to the dangers of the Commonwealth? MacCready stares at him, scampering around Big Town, infinitely safer and thriving now thanks to one-oh-one's work and sacrifice and wants to cry. Love was doing what's best for the person that you loved, no matter what you wanted. He ducked his head down onto his chest—who knew that finding the cure wouldn't necessarily mean that everything would turn out okay? 

_This seems a little hair-shirt-like._ MacCready recognizes the voice immediately and glances over at him. Deacon. Being a jerk like usual. 

What's that supposed to mean? he snapped. 

_Hey, pal. This is your dream, not mine. Maybe you should ask why you're so set on punishing yourself._ Deacon looks oddly sympathetic. 

What are you doing here? You dumped me, remember? He tries to sound cold, but Deacon just smirks at him like he can tell it's put on. 

_Did I?_ Deacon shook his head, smiling. _I don't remember saying that._

You didn't have to, MacCready retorted. How often can I go somewhere only to find out you just left before I start putting it together? He wants to be mad at Deacon—really mad. But Deacon's wearing that ridiculous Wastelander get-up that he'd been wearing on the freeway and MacCready can't help but find it a little--sexy. 

_I'm an idiot, we both know it. Let's pretend that I didn't and that Fate brings us back together in some contrived, over-the-top way._ Then Deacon picked up MacCready's hand and laced their fingers together, making his heart speed up ridiculously. He paid no attention to his words, typical Deacon double-speak. He hadn't seen him since Bunker Hill but now—now everything seems like it will be okay. He looked over shyly and Deacon lifted their joined hands to his lips and kissed them. 

He smiled at Deacon and then-- there's a banging noise--like a gunshot or a --- 

MacCready's door slammed open so hard, it bounced off the opposite wall. Before the sound had died, he had rolled off the mattress, grabbed his holdout pistol and pointed it at the partially-visible person in the doorway. Fragments of the dream were still clinging to his mind, and he half-expected it to be Deacon. Wanted it to be Deacon. 

The shape let out a harsh breath, almost a sob, with a distinctly-feminine intonation. It was early, still dark and he couldn't see much. "MacCready?" she said, voice wavering uncertainly. It sounded like Gail's mom. 

There was a faint increase in the light and now he could see that it was Sonya, her dark blonde hair wild and disordered. The light flickered—it was another person carrying a lantern. The man stepped inside and grabbed her arm. "Stop it, Sonya," he said in a harsh whisper. "Leave him be. Come on now." He tried to pull her back outside and she resisted, looking over her shoulder frantically. Neither of them saw him in the shadowy corner of the room. 

MacCready frowned after them. His initial reaction was _bad news_. Raiders or a Gunner patrol spotted. Maybe a group of ghouls. But it didn't make sense not to want every person who could hold a gun... He stood up and lowered the pistol. "Wait, Sonya. I'm awake. What is it?" 

She said gladly, "MacCready!" Yanked away from the other man—MacCready realized that it was Allen--and rushed over to grab his shoulders. He set his gun down hastily, before she crashed into him. She didn't even notice, and said, voice strained and hopeful, "Is Gail here? Have—have you seen her?" 

His blood turned to ice and his fists clenched. Echoes from the past. Sammy and Squirrel, missing. Tommy, Meg, Chance... Lucy. Helpless fury turned to anguish when he couldn't save them. He had to take a deep breath before he could speak. "No, no, she's not. What happened?" 

Sonya started to speak but Allen overrode her. He scowled. "She's hiding somewhere, and she's not going to be able to sit down for a week when we find her." 

"That doesn't sound like her," MacCready said, frowning. As the oldest child, Gail had responsibilities piled on her narrow little shoulders and she knew how much everyone would worry. Sonya nodded her head, eyes welling up. 

Allen looked annoyed and folded his arms. "Look, MacCready, I’m trying to be nice, but we don't need you. Okay? This is settlement business." 

He walked out and Sonya sniffled. Then she gave MacCready an apologetic look and left as well. 

MacCready stood indecisively, looking from the door to his bed. Abruptly realized that he was still bare-chested and in his underwear. His face heated in embarrassment. He should probably just go back to bed and-- He sighed and rubbed his shoulder until the joint cracked. It was almost always sore from weapon recoil, but he hadn't fired a weapon in three days and it felt better than it had in a long time. 

He sat down on the edge of the bed, his stomach churning with anxiety. Gail had maybe been smarting off a little more _(under your influence, great, good job, MacCready)_ but she wasn't stupid. Was she hiding because she'd gotten in trouble? He didn't think so, he'd seen her right before bedtime and everything had seemed fine then. He lay back on the bed and then sat up again restlessly. It didn't make sense. 

And despite what a lot of grownups told themselves, kids did things for sensible reasons, not just randomly to annoy the adults. Maybe the adults didn't understand the reasons, but they were there. If anyone should be able to figure that out, it would be him. He remembered being Gail's age, old enough to work but not old enough to be trusted. Expected to help out with the littles but not getting anything extra for doing so. It sucked. He stared up at the ceiling for a few minutes. Then he sighed, lit a candle and dressed rapidly. He grabbed the Pip-boy that Blue had given him for light and headed out. He couldn't just stay here, not if there was something, anything that he could do. 

When he climbed the steps up to the central area, all was quiet. It was past the turn of the night but still very early. The sky was black and the moon low, with no hint of the sunrise waiting in the wings. If Sonya had seen her at bedtime, then that had been about six hours ago. That was a long time, and a lot could have happened. He sighed unhappily. The only people in sight were Sonya and a couple of the men, sitting by the cooking fire. He came to a stop next to her. "Where is everyone?" 

She looked up, her eyes swimming with tears and her lips trembling. "What do you mean?" 

He stared in disbelief. "Um, the other adults, so we can look for Gail." He tried not to sound as incredulous as he felt. 

"Allen says not to wake the others. We should wait for daylight." 

MacCready suppressed a surge of anger. "That's bullsh—um, bullcrap. The longer we wait, the colder the trail gets." 

The men were starting to look uncomfortable. Allen came up the steps and frowned when he saw them. "Trail going cold? What the fuck are you talking about MacCready? You think you're some kind of expert?" 

MacCready stared at him and wondered what the heck had gotten into him. He wasn't normally so unpleasant and aggressive—or he hadn't been before. MacCready was starting to think that he needed to talk to Blue about the leadership here. For now, he held out his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Look, I'm just saying—" 

"I'm just saying," Allen mocked in a high-pitched voice. Then he went on, "It'll be easier to see once the sun's up. Odds are, she's under someone's bed anyway." 

"That doesn't make sense," MacCready said, trying to hold onto his rapidly-fraying temper. "She wasn't in trouble, she wasn't upset about anything--" 

Allen rolled his eyes and said rudely, "Like you'd know." 

MacCready folded his arms over his chest and tried to keep his voice steady. "I do know that the best way to find a missing kid is not to sit around while she gets farther away because she's lost or kidnapped!" 

Allen scowled. "Kidnapped? There's no signs of that. You're overreacting, and you're scaring Sonya." 

MacCready's tone was sharp. "Yeah? I'm overreacting? Gail is _missing!_ " Sonya's chest hitched on a sob and MacCready glared at him. "You need to get everyone together and--" 

Allen grabbed his shoulder and shook him, rattling his head back on your shoulders. "Shut up!" he snarled, spittle from his mouth landing on MacCready's face. "Just because you're the General's buddy doesn't mean you can tell us what to do!" Murmurs from the men around the fire. 

_That_ was _it_. MacCready had his pistol jammed under his chin before the other man could react. "Get your hands off me." 

Allen's face twisted but he released him and took a step back. MacCready kept the pistol trained on him until he raised his hands. Then he took a step back and surveyed them all. "Well, fun as this was, now we're doin' it my way," he announced loudly. "Get everyone up and search the settlement. Argue with me again," he gave them and Allen a tight smile, "and I'll make you wish you hadn't." 

He lowered the pistol and waited. Hangdog looks from the other men, hope on Sonya's and Allen...was just scowling at the ground. Fine. As long as he kept out of Mac's way. "If you don't like it," he went on, "take it up with the General. I can straight up guarantee, though, that she won't like the idea of you sitting around while a child is missing!" 

Several of them winced at that. He pointed at the most reasonable-looking one. "Jim, go rouse the others. Lana can stay with the kids. And after you check the buildings, fan out to the rest of the town. Everyone stay arms-length." He shoved his pistol back into its holster at the small of his back. "I'm going to look around." Kept an eye on Allen but he didn't move. 

He got half-way around the outskirts before his temper started cooling. Despite his words, he wasn't at all sure Blue would appreciate his high-handedness. He wished that jerk Deacon had shown up like he was supposed to. He probably could have sweet-talked them into doing what he wanted without having to pull a gun on them. 

But Deacon wasn't here...because _he_ was here. After Bunker Hill, he might as well not even exist to Deacon. His mouth twisted bitterly. Maybe Deacon had gotten bored with him. Or it had all been a lie, and Deacon was screwing him for some mysterious Railroad reason. Or for some mysterious Deacon-reason, because why not break a few hearts to pass the time? 

Maybe MacCready was too much of a gullible idiot—and Deacon liked more of a challenge. He didn't know what he'd done...or not done. He pushed down the familiar taste of loss and regret. Stupid dream, bringing all this back to mind. He needed to concentrate on Gail--he was coming up on the old church. He'd helped Blue clear the ferals when she'd first started poking around here. That was before she'd even known how much he hated them. 

"Hey, MacCready!" One of the settlers yelled. He turned around to see Jim waving at him, surrounded by all the other adults. "She's not in the buildings." 

He nodded. "Start sweeping outward then." He hesitated, feeling like he probably should go and help them. He wasn't sure any of them knew how to organize a grid-search, but he did. But—just a quick look around. He'd seen Gail looking at the church once or twice after he'd told her about killing the ferals and finding the note about the treasures. It was strictly outside the bounds the kids were allowed, but she had been pushing back a little lately. There were stairs up to the second-floor gallery—what if she'd fallen, broken a leg or something? If only it would be that easy. 

He checked the house first, which was echoingly empty. Then the church. Pushed the door open, frowning when it scraped louder than he remembered, and looked inside. The settlers had stripped it bare, pulled out all the old pews, even the wooden railings and pulpit. Nothing moving, not a sound. He took a breath. He'd been hoping against hope that she would be there. He gazed around the interior, which was almost empty. There was some trash in a corner. 

He turned back to the door and his foot kicked a wedge-shaped piece of wood that clattered across the floor. All right. Time to join the search. He bit his lip and was about to close the door, when he thought—wait. Something wasn't right. That wasn't _trash_... and _what_ was that wedge?


	6. Babe, I'm fist-fighting with fire

The slaver yanked loose the ropes holding Deacon to the Brahmin and then stepped away. He tried to roll, land lightly, but instead he flopped down to the ground with a pained grunt. His hands were still tied in front of him and numb and tingling. He braced his hands on the ground and managed to sit up, watching the slaver warily. They were in a barn, the plank floor long since given way to dirt and scrub. The roof was half gone, but the walls were still intact and the doors were barred with a sturdy length of wood. From the Brahmin droppings, this was a regular stop. Gail was standing next to him, untied. The slaver was a prudent few feet away, with his thumb poised over a small device. Two quick guesses what that was likely to be. Deacon wiped his face off, and opened his mouth. 

"Nope," the other man interrupted. "I ain't interested in hearing from you. Keep your smart mouth shut. Get some food and water out of the pack for yourself and the girl. I'm expanding the range to ten feet, but don't get any thoughts about escaping." He waggled the device warningly. He was wearing leather armor that strained over his substantial gut and a dark brown combover. Slaving must pay well. 

A second to mourn Deliverer's loss. This piece of shit likely had no idea of its worth. And if he'd ever run across someone who needed shot more than this guy, he sure as hell couldn't remember. Deacon took a deep breath and said, "You're making a mistake. Just hear me out." 

The slaver punched the button and Deacon talked faster, trying to get as many words out as possible before the pain hit. “You'll get more caps if--" 

Then Gail crumpled next to him with a choked cry, and he snapped his mouth closed so fast, he nearly bit his tongue. The slaver smiled smugly and pointedly lifted his finger from the button. Deacon looked at him with fury and disbelief. Gail sobbed in a breath and started crying, and Deacon had to close his eyes and fight off the desire to struggle to his feet and flee mindlessly, collar or no collar. Trapped, trapped, _trapped..._ He clenched his tied hands for an instant and then relaxed them. Began to pat the little girl's back and smoothed down the fine strands of her hair. She leaned her head in his lap, tears soaking into his trousers. 

The slaver looked meanly satisfied. Deacon felt a surge of hatred undercut with fear. It was no longer about what he could do to Deacon and they both realized it. It probably would have been better to act like he didn't care about her then to hand him that ammo. Deacon bowed his head. It didn't matter; he couldn't have done it. Gail had gone from annoying nameless kid to a valued little person, as worthwhile in her own right as any synth that he'd struggled to save. _And this is why you avoid kids, Deacon_ , mental-Dez whispered.  _That detachment has limits_.

The slaver elaborately turned his back on them and began setting up a comfy little camp for himself. Fire. Bedroll. Food, beer. The warm smell made his stomach rumble. He'd eaten almost nothing all day. Night. Whatever. He peered up at the portion of the sky visible through the half-collapsed roof. No moon, but he had the feeling that dawn was near. 

He looked around. Their ten-foot circle encompassed the brahmin and its packs, a feed trough and a few rough blankets in one corner. Gail's sobs gradually died down to hiccups and she sat up and clutched at him. "Why was that?" Deacon's gaze jerked over to where the other was leisurely grilling some kind of meat. No reaction to Gail's words. Maybe he didn't give a shit if they talked to each other. He didn't see how he was supposed to keep a seven-year-old moving if he didn't talk to her. 

He lowered his voice as much as possible just in case. "That was my fault. I'm so sorry. It won't happen again." Apologizing again because he was so _worthless_. He should have realized the logical extension, but the asshole had been so focused on him so far that he hadn't seen it coming. 

Gail buried her face in his shirt and he resigned himself to wearing child snot for the rest of the trip. Ah, well, still preferable to anything the slavers were likely to give him. Whispered in her ear, "You want some water? Some food? Let me look and see what I can find." He watched the slaver warily but he continued ignoring them. 

When he stood up, she clung to his shirt with surprisingly strong little fingers and was pulled up as well. Then planted her feet on top of his own so that he literally couldn't take a step without carrying her along. He raised his eyebrows at her and debated asking her—nicely—to step off. She avoided his gaze, keeping her small face buried in his stomach. Out-stubborned by a seven-year-old. He looked around, trying to fix the radius of a ten-foot circle in his mind and took two cautious steps forward. Walking was lumbering and awkward and if he fell, his stupid tied hands would ensure he face-planted. Also, Gail was a hell of lot heavier than she looked. 

He fumbled through the remaining pack and found water and some kind of jerky. Nothing else. Ugh. He couldn't identify what animal meat it was made from. He tucked the water bottle under his chin, and gripped a handful of jerky, and re-buckled the pack. He managed to half-sit, half-fall down without dropping the food, the water or the little girl and she curled into a trusting weight on his lap. 

Don't trust me, he wanted to say. Don't rely on me. Bad things happen to people who do that. But instead he grappled clumsily with the bottle lid until he got it off. His hands were aching under the ropes. Gail drank thirstily but turned her nose up at the jerky. "Euwww. It smells funny." 

Deacon sniffed it. Fishy...salty. Mirelurk...jerky? That was probably one of the more disgusting concepts that he could imagine. It didn't matter. It was all they had and they had to stay on their feet. He braced himself and took a bite. Blech. Pasted a smile on his face. "It's good. C'mon, try some." 

She wrinkled up her nose and shook her head. He shoved the rest of the strip into his mouth and swallowed as quickly as possible. Still yucky, plus a fishy aftertaste that was just _awesome._ He took a sip of water and considered Gail. 

Deacon made his tone coaxing. "You've got to be hungry. Try some—just a bit." She clamped her mouth shut and shook her head again, cute little scowl on her face. 

Stubborn little--! He took another bite and changed his angle of attack. "Okay, more for me. Boy, is _MacCready_ going to be disappointed!" Glanced away nonchalantly, while chewing. Chewing quickly was the trick, less time for the taste to permeate his mouth. Ugh. 

Gail patted his cheek with her hand and he looked down at her and raised his eyebrows. "Whatcha mean?" she whispered. 

"Oh, MacCready loves this stuff. Eats it all the time. He'll be so sad that you don't like it." He resisted the urge to add any more embellishment. 

She frowned thoughtfully and then grabbed a slice out of his hand. Took a bite. Made a face, but chewed, swallowed. Then grabbed a second. Yay for Deacon. Able to out-maneuver a seven-year-old. Sure, it had taken several _hours_ but he had finally managed it. 

Deacon slouched down, wondering if he dared sleep for a time. It wasn't clear if they would be staying here or moving on. Wondered if he could hope that the settlers would alert the Minutemen. If Allen would let them. If MacCready would—no, better not to think about him. 

Gail perked up after eating and got up on her knees, her bony kneecaps digging into his thighs. "What's the cow's name? Where are we?" She talked directly into his face, with her elbows on his chest. 

"I don't know," he whispered. 

"I don't like that man. I don't like this place. And I wanna go home an' see my mommy." No argument there, little lady. He suppressed the urge to push her away—just a little, maybe, oh, eight inches instead of four? "You should go and kill that mean man," she told him earnestly. Fish breath. 

"Shhhh," Deacon breathed, looking over at the person in question. He'd rolled himself in a blanket and appeared asleep. Not that it mattered. As long as they had these collars on, they weren't going anywhere. "I can't. I don't have my gun anymore." 

"Go punch him then." 

"Sorry, not good enough." 

She poked him. "Are you a coward?" 

He half-laughed, suppressed a yawn. "I can tell you've been hanging out with MacCready. Look, why don't you get some sleep? I'm tired, aren't you?" He got up on his knees and grabbed one of the rough blankets. Distinct smell of brahmin. Wonderful. He spread it out and patted it invitingly. She looked from it to him doubtfully. Right. He lay down first and she curled up next to him. Awkwardly pulled the other blanket over them. The ropes around his wrists made it hard to find a comfortable position. Finally, he laid his hands together over his chest. 

Her voice came out of the dark, barely a whisper. "Where are we going? The guy said my—my mommy—gave me away because I didn't work hard enough." 

Deacon looked up at the sky and wished there was a god and a devil and that one of them would fry that bastard where he lay. "That's not true," he said instead. "Your mommy would never do that." Hoped like hell that he was right. "Anyway, I bet they'll send the Minutemen after us. Don't worry; it'll be okay." 

Standard reassurances, spilling out almost automatically. He caught himself and grimaced into the dark. It had been a long time since he'd said anything like that. His Railroad life was about adults, tough characters who could take care of themselves, or synths, brief and fleeting. No one depended on him to keep their spirits up, not if they knew him. No one had for a long time. 

Deacon was too tired to fight off the memories. _It's all right, don't worry, you're gonna be okay._ Words he'd said, kneeling in a puddle of blood, in the wreckage of his life, watching the light fade from her eyes. She'd clutched his hand and tried to say something, one last thing. Maybe 'I love you' or 'I'm sorry,' that would've been typical, her trying to console him. But all that came out was a rush of blood. He didn't know what her last words were. He'd never know. Nothing was going to be okay. It was the fucking apocalypse. 

Gail shifted closer. Voice somewhat muffled, as if she spoke around a thumb. "Or maybe MacCready will come?" 

He should know better than to trust, or to care. He'd been fighting these types of thoughts, tried to excise them out of his mind like a surgeon would extract a bullet. Since that packet arrived from one of his Railroad contacts in the Capitol Wastes. She was busy, as always, and openly suspicious of his request. Little Lamplight and Big Town were worthless to the Railroad—two settlements where everyone knew everyone since birth, and literally watched each other grow up. No room for outsiders, or synths. 

But there had been talk recently. About Red, the doctor, and Joseph, former mayor, taking in the sick kid of a former inhabitant. Unusual. Usually Big Town sent babies and orphans to Little Lamplight. More she didn't know unless he wanted her to hike over there and talk to the slightly paranoid natives. And if he wanted that, then he needed to tell her how it was any of the Railroad's business. He could imagine what Desdemona would say if she caught wind of it. Unprofessional. Taking unnecessary risks. He should take some time off and re-think his _goals._

MacCready's son. Sick son. Had to be somewhere between three and six, right? He was probably a skinny little twerp with bright blue eyes. With an attitude. MacCready’s easy way with the kids made more sense now. And he’d seen how fond of Gail he was. 

MacCready would come. If he could, if that bastard Allen didn't shiv him in his sleep. If he knew where to go. He’d come or die trying, to save Gail. _Despite_ Deacon, because he didn't deserve any consideration after the way he'd treated him. Deacon patted her head clumsily. "Yeah, or him." 

Gail sniffled and wiped her face against his sleeve. "Tell me 'bout him, 'bout Mac." 

He looked down at the top of her head, feeling flabbergasted. Uh, what could he say that was age-appropriate? "Well...did you know that when he was just a little older than you, he got made a Mayor?" She shook her head sleepily. "Once upon a time, there were a bunch of kids that lived in a cave..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, these guys will be back together soon! Thanks for reading, it makes me feel like less of a weirdo out here humming to myself.


	7. Just to get close to you, babe

MacCready hesitated on the doorstep of the church. Something was nagging at him, something was out of place. It was the same feeling he got when he was sighted in on a mutant's head and missing the darn yao guai running toward him. Trash. Everything in the church stripped to reuse in the settlement but there was still some trash? Who had left trash here? None of the settlers had any reason to poke around, the kids were forbidden and there hadn't been any strangers--- 

He turned around and glanced around the space, but it was still empty and quiet. "Deacon?" he said out loud and immediately felt foolish. Could he have been here? And that was a stupid question, MacCready, because of course he could have been here—that's why he'd been waiting around, after all. 

In his memory, Blue was holding hands with Piper and clearly impatient to get going. "Deacon'll be finished up pretty soon and then—" 

He'd interrupted her. "Deacon? Yeah, right. Like that's gonna happen." 

Sharp retort back. "Well, it better. I expect you guys to sort this out, MacCready, and sooner rather than later." 

He had yawned elaborately instead of more directly telling her off. "Whatever. I'm taking a nap." Thrown himself down on the bed in the little guest cabin in a huff and ignored her until she left. He'd had plenty of time since then to brood about the fact that Deacon would rather directly piss Blue off than come anywhere near him. Talk about feeling lower than a molerat. 

MacCready sighed and brought his attention firmly back to the present. He was being stupid, and he should be focusing on Gail. He clicked his Pip-boy light up to high and looked down at the floor. That wedge—he found it and picked it up. Sudden feeling of cold down the back of his neck. It had been carved deliberately, he could see the knife marks, lighter against the worn grain of the wood. One edge was scraped and splintered. He looked at the edge of the door and immediately spotted new scratches—about chest height. Set the wedge against them and they matched perfectly. Someone had tried to jam this door closed. Tried...and failed. 

His breathing quickened and he knelt down to look at the floor. Thick curls of dust and dirt in the corners of the room but here... He rubbed one finger against the wood and looked at it. Small amount of dust. Too small. Something had disturbed it. 

He angled his Pip-boy so the light caught the thin layer of dust—scuffs all between the door and that corner with the trash. Underneath a window. He walked over to it and glanced out. Almost a perfect view of the majority of Jamaica Plains. Apprehension gathered in his throat. It was obviously a good observation post...if you cared about that sort of thing. If you were the type of person to hang back in the shadows and watch other people without their knowledge. One of his fists clenched. The window had about half the pane left, and the remaining glass had been carefully smeared with dust. The window faced west, which meant for the majority of the day, someone sitting here could see out, while outside observers would only see the light reflecting on the dirty glass. MacCready swallowed hard. 

The trash was a couple of pages of newsprint, carefully crumpled to maximize the volume. Underneath, neatly hidden, was a water bottle and a small book. He picked up the water bottle first and examined it carefully—it was familiar. He was almost sure that it belonged to—to Deacon. Shook it, heard the gurgle of water. Tipped it up to his mouth—the water was still cool. Did it ...taste like him? There was no way to be sure, but his heart was sinking down into his boots. It couldn't have been here long; the water would be flat and lukewarm otherwise. Looked at the book and it fell open to a page numbered '29'. Idle scribbles on the page. His gaze caught on a line: _For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings._

His apprehension coalesced into dread. That tore it. Several people might have been watching this settlement and reading—Blue herself, Piper, Preston, Nick—but only one person would think to camouflage the window glass and also be reading ancient _poetry._ It had to have been Deacon. 

He looked around again and then lay down, with the side of his face flat against the floor and sighted across the expanse of wood. There. An irregularity. Almost invisible behind the angle of the door. 

He crawled over and found a single ten-millimeter bullet. Deacon's silenced weapon, the one he called Deliverer, fired ten-millimeter ammo. It painted a picture, all right, clear as day. Deacon, watching the settlement for some crazy reason of his own. He’s safely hidden from sight and no one has even noticed him... But then something draws him out of his corner and over to the door. It alarms him enough that he pulls out his gun and ammo. Were his hands shaking when he reloaded? Then he tries to secure the door with the wedge. But... someone knocked it out, sent it broken and splintered to the floor. And then--? 

_Deacon, why didn't you tell me you were here?_ His stupid eyes were stinging, so he closed them and shook his head. Getting...emotional wouldn't help Deacon... Or Gail. 

Because that must have been what he'd seen. Something to do with Gail. He'd been watching the settlement, so Deacon would have recognized her and known that something was fishy. He would have tried to intervene. And maybe, just maybe, Gail wasn't the only person that he recognized. MacCready clenched his fist until the edges of the bullet dug into his skin. But, oh god, he's gone and Gail's gone, so what had happened? 

Opened his eyes and stared almost blankly at the walls. Then more intently. Closed the door and checked the interior side, where Deacon had been standing. Every dark spot and shadow on the floor. 

He was so engrossed in his search that he nearly jumped out of his skin when another settler came to the door and knocked hesitantly. He stared at it angrily but didn't dare open it. He was a crappy liar, as Deacon had warned him once before. 

"Keep searching," MacCready called out to him. "I'll be out in a sec." Checked out the window, pressed into the shadows. The other man looked disappointed, but went. 

Within a few minutes, he was sure that there wasn't a single bullet hole in the church's lower level. Some suspicious dents in the back wall, with a few tiny smears of blood. It was dried to a dark maroon—older than what he's looking for and too small to be from a gunshot wound anyway. It didn't make sense. Deacon was a good shot. If he had his pistol and ammo out already, there was no way some baddie could have gotten him without Deacon firing back. At least once. It seemed unreal that anyone could even _get_ the drop on him, but-- And there would have been blood. He cast an anxious eye over the floor again. No. There was no way they could have cleaned it up without leaving traces. There was no blood, there _couldn't_ be blood because if there was, then it meant.... 

_Cool it, Mac._ Clung to the fact that no blood meant that Deacon's body couldn't be dumped in the swamp somewhere. _Assume he's alive._ Heart squeezing painfully. He _has_ to be alive. It didn't matter if he didn't want him, MacCready. He didn't care about that, about any of it. Didn't care if he found Deacon and he turned away and never spoke to him again. He just wanted to know that the jerk was alive in the world somewhere, smirking and spying and doing his thing. Just being alive and being _Deacon_. MacCready bit his lip and tried to force his thoughts back on track. 

Too many broken windows. The church might have made a great spyhole but it was a less than ideal defensive position. If Deacon were by the door, then someone shooting at him would have had the best angle from.... there or there, maybe over there. Maybe Deacon had fought back, broken the wedge himself and escaped with Gail. Taken Gail with him to protect her. And if Gail was with Deacon, then they could relax. MacCready considered reasons that might make Deacon take that drastic an action and felt a surge of anger. 

MacCready went outside and started searching through the scrubby grass. He was braced to find shell casings— _he's alive, he's alive, he has to be alive_. He was hoping to find a bad guy's blood or ten- millimeter bullet holes in the exterior. Anything that would show that Deacon had fought back. But he didn't expect what he did find--the absolute worst. It was lying innocently in the farthest, darkest corner, by a window with a great view of the door. Almost unnoticeable in the rubble unless someone knew what they were looking for. A single blue-tipped bundle of three cylinders. He sank down on his knees, unable to look away, and took a long shaky breath. _No._ No, no, no, no no no! 

It was a spent mesmetron power cell. 

Five minutes after that, he was blindly shoving stuff into his pack, barely aware of the tears in his eyes. Water, stimpaks, bandages, lockpicks, extra ammo, the silenced sniper rifle plus the non-silenced semi-auto that packed enough of a kick to drop a yao guai. Switchblade, backup pistol and combat knife. Sliced his finger sheathing it, making him notice how his hands were shaking. Food: sugar bombs, Gail’s favorite, a sleeping bag. If....No, _when_ he found them, they might be injured or in shock. He stared at the blood on his hand grimly. Wiped his eyes and took a deep breath. _When_ he found them, someone was going to fucking _pay._

He yanked the door open and found himself face to face with Lana, Jason's mom. She looked briefly surprised and then gave a showy sniffle. "We can't find her, Mac, what are we going to do?" She reached out and wrapped her arms around him, put her head on his shoulder. Pressed her breasts against his chest. 

He didn't have time for this. He pushed her away. "Lana--" She was nice enough, but she'd been dogging his steps since he set foot in Jamaica Plains. 

She looked up, frowning, taking in the pack on his back. "Where are you going?" 

He opened his mouth to say, "After them," when it hit him... Deacon had seen Gail with the slaver...but how had the slaver gotten ahold of her in the first place? 

Gail may have pushing back at the settlement rules lately but she wasn't stupid. None of them were, not even baby Maria. They all knew the dangers of the Wastes, they started shooting as soon as their arms were strong enough to hold up a weapon and there was no friggin' way Gail would have been anywhere a slaver could grab her. Someone set it up or lured her out. And Mac was done trusting a single person in this fu-freaking settlement. 

He snapped his mouth shut. Then put his arms around her and drew her close. She came willingly, with an excited huff of breath, and lifted her mouth to his. He turned his face away to whisper in her ear. "Lana, I don't know what's going on, but I'm worried. The General's halfway between here and Murkwater. I'm going to get her. Don't tell anyone." 

He wondered cynically if that was enough to ensure that she told everyone. At any rate, Blue's threatened arrival should keep things quiet for a few days. Hopefully by then, he'd be back...With Gail _and_ Deacon. 

Her fingers tightened on the back of his neck, but he pulled away. Lifted one finger to his lips. She looked relieved. "She'll come and help us?" 

He nodded. Thought about what would likely happen if say, both he and Deacon disappeared without a trace from this settlement. Wouldn't want to be them. He'd seen Blue lose her temper. The pack was heavy and he hitched it higher on his shoulders. 

He waved to her and openly headed south. Once he was out of sight, he changed course and quickened his pace to a ground-eating lope. West. They were hours ahead of him but he knew where they were going. There was only one place to buy and sell slaves in the 'Wealth. Nuka-World.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shakespeare's sonnet 29 is part of the Fair Youth cycle—in which the male narrator speaks of his love for a beautiful young man.  I'll leave you to speculate about why Deac was reading it.


	8. Tired of bein' played like a violin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for comments and kudos, and I really hope you enjoy this chapter!

Even after lying down, Deacon didn't sleep for a while. Gail dropped off before he'd even finished making up the names of the kids that had voted for Mayor MacCready. Wondered what he was doing, but it was so early that he was probably still asleep. Then he thought about the last time he’d seen him asleep, on the overpass. He was pretty sure that he had not appreciated a warm, sleepy Mac nearly enough at the time. He turned restlessly onto his side and tucked one of Gail’s hands between both of his, just in case she was a sleep walker or something. 

After ten minutes or so, he wished she was. No sleep-walking, but she squirmed, sighed, wiggled and _kicked._ In the thighs, the knees, the gut, once she nearly got him right in the....well, where Mr. Happy would not have been happy. At first, he was convinced that she was awake and doing it for some inexplicable kid-reason, but careful observation proved that wasn't true. He had to release her hand and instead grabbed her skinny little foot and held onto it. Then he drifted off into a doze, half-rousing whenever her foot twitched and trying to fend off the kick that usually followed. 

It wasn't her that woke him when the quarter moon was overhead and shining through the holes in the roof. It was a change in the air, an unfamiliar breath or half-heard sound that jerked his eyes open until he looked around. The first thing that he noticed was that Gail had turned herself sideways, so that her feet were right next to his stomach, and her blonde head was pointed toward the Brahmin. The second thing that he noticed, that hit him like a punch, was the slaver crouched by her head, reaching out as if to touch her. 

"Get the fuck away from her," he hissed, and the slaver jumped and looked up angrily. He didn't make any noise though, for which Deacon's mind immediately supplied the worst possible interpretation: he didn't want to wake Gail. So this time, he would electrocute Deacon. And while Deacon was incapacitated, he'd--- No. Deacon sat up, prepared to throw himself on top of Gail or to knock the device out of the slavers hand. He moved to Gail’s side and braced himself. This was going to hurt. 

Instead, the slaver scooted backward on his butt, while scowling at Deacon. Strange. Wait a minute. Because....Deacon looked at him closely and... he didn't see anything. No square metal device, not in his hand, or hanging from his belt. Had he forgotten...? Deacon's lips twisted into a hard grin and he threw himself toward the other man. His tied hands tripped him up but he managed to move forward on his elbows and knees, felt a splinter on the wood floor gouge one leg. The slaver's backward shuffle ticked upward in speed. Deacon grabbed and barely missed seizing one of his ankles. 

“Stay away from me,” the other man grunted, the strain of moving so fast showing in his voice. Still not reaching for a device. He really had left it behind, so fucking overconfident that he could handle one 'smart guy' and a kid. If Deacon got hold of him, he’d strangle him even with his stupid wrists tied together. 

“Oh stop, please, don’t,” Deacon said scornfully. He got his knees back under him and lunged forward. The slaver cursed and rolled over, scrambling faster back toward the campfire and his pack. The collar around Deacon’s neck buzzed into life with a warning beep. Getting too close to the perimeter. He caught the slaver's pants leg and yanked as hard as he could and the guy went down. Grappled with him but the other man kicked, with a sudden strength borne of desperation, one foot glancing off the side of his face. Kicked again and caught his shoulder with a solid blow, making Deacon fall onto his side. A second warning beep and the collar flared into life against his neck. The shock locked his muscles into rigidity and sent a crushing pain through his neck, shoulders and chest. Finally, the collar turned off with another beep and he struggled to his knees, shaking his head. Looked up and saw the slaver by the fire, device in his hand, his face stark with fear and anger. 

Punched the button and Deacon's limbs locked up again, toppling him forward and making his limbs jerk in painful spastic tremors. A white fire of pain washed over his mind, blanking it. He couldn't breathe, move, speak for an agonizingly long time. When it finally stopped, he managed to turn to his side and look over at the slaver. He still had the device and was watching Deacon carefully. “You fucking so much as twitch and I’ll hit you again," he snarled. 

“Ooh, scary,” Deacon said and managed a smile. "Couple of more inches there and I'd have had you. _Pal._ " 

Flicker in the other man's eyes. "Shut up." 

Deacon swiped at a bleeding scrape on his face on the shoulder of his shirt and moved back to Gail. He laid down next to her. She was still asleep, but frowning slightly, lips twitching. Deacon rested his hands, wrists now aching and bruised, lightly on her stomach and she sighed, quieted. He kept watching the other man, who was climbing into his sleeping bag with a big show of unconcern. Greyish light was creeping across the sky, forcing him to revise his earlier estimate of the time—it was a dark foggy dawn, barely worthy of the name. Lucky for the slaver. Not so lucky for he and Gail and anyone who might be trying to track them. 

He finally dozed a little but the slaver was up after a short rest, clanging gear around and pointedly not looking at either of them. Water, jerky, bathroom break—he sent Gail behind the Brahmin while he stood guard, watching the slaver closely. And then they were back on the road, trudging next to the animal, tugging on its collar and trying to keep himself and Gail in the center of a ten-foot diameter circle. Spotted a few 'lurks near the river, but they didn't notice them. Pity. If that piss-poor slaver had had to fight a few of them off, it might have opened up some opportunities. 

The slaver topped a little ridge and came to an abrupt halt, squinting off into the mist. Figures approaching. It was still hard to see, but from the sun's position it must be nearly noon. As they emerged from the fog, Deacon saw Nuka-World gear on them and his heart sank. So close to the slaver haven already? He’d never been there, but he’d heard of it. At least one synth had run afoul of the Nuka raider gangs. They were on Blue’s ‘exterminate’ list too. Too much to hope that she’d come along to do that before he and Gail were horribly traumatized. 

There was a shallow ravine up ahead and the raiders stopped and gestured to it. The slaver hesitated and then walked forward, motioning for Deacon and Gail to follow. Deacon tugged on the Brahmin collar and eased the balky beast down. It didn't like the change in terrain and it lowed, tail switching across Gail's face. 

"Move dummy!" she yelled at it, pushing on one broad flank with all her might. Deacon admired her grit. No sobbing or crying this morning when he gently woke her and it turned out that the nightmare was reality. She'd clung to him for a moment and then asked for some water in a small hoarse voice. He could see why MacCready liked her so much; she probably reminded him of himself, or the way Deacon imagined him as a child, tough and brave and smart. Once they were down the sloping slide of the crevasse, the slaver motioned them to sit, and then turned his attention to the approaching raiders. 

"You with Mags, Nisha or Mason?" he called. 

"Mags." The one in the lead called, looking down at them through her sunglasses. She had a laser pistol held loosely in her hands and a sniper rifle slung over her back. Not as nice as MacCready's, Deacon thought, and looked down, biting his lip. 

The slaver straightened up. "Thank god, last time it was Mason and the howling kept me up all night." 

The leader said composedly. "I'm Sal. They do love their dogs." 

"Yeah, they howled too." The slaver laughed a little nervously but the others had no reaction. Deacon scanned the ridges surrounding the gulley without much hope, for all that it was a set up that would favor a sniper. 

Mags. That meant Operators. They didn’t have a lot of information about the various gangs of Nuka-World, but what there was suggested that the Operators were a little less blood-crazed and impetuous than the others. Maybe bribery had a chance of succeeding. Not that he had anything to bribe them with. Well... Anything that he was willing to give up. And he didn't dare mention Blue—even if the raiders didn’t know about the ‘exterminate’ list, they weren’t on the best of terms. 

Sal didn't bother introducing the other two Operators, but she was obviously in charge, her suit layered with armor and ammo belts. Jesus. Never thought he'd see anyone with more of an ammo fixation than MacCready. Sal folded her arms and looked over at them. "Just two?" She sounded disappointed. 

Gail whimpered and leaned into Deacon’s side, practically climbing into his lap. He swallowed hard, not nearly as calm as he was pretending to be. He didn't imagine that a slave inspection was going to be comfortable and at the worst, it might get pretty damn awful. "Honey, stay right there and keep your eyes closed," he whispered to her. She hunched up and put her face into her bony knees. 

The slaver’s smile had an edge to it. "Just two, but good ones." 

She walked over closer. Deacon noticed that the slaver had his fancy remote out, finger poised. She walked around them in a circle and Deacon could see Gail trembling. "A child," the Operator said thoughtfully. "I think Lizzie was interested in one for her experiments." 

The slaver coughed. "Uh, usually the Pack pays good for kids, but I’ll consider offers. Why’d you stop us so far out?" 

The Operator finally stopped looking at Gail and Deacon breathed an internal sigh of relief. She turned back to the slaver and smiled. Not a nice smile. "There's fresh meat for the Gauntlet. We caught a little Gunner all by his lonesome out here." 

Deacon stiffened and looked over at her. “Gauntlet? What’s that?” he asked sharply. 

The slaver scowled and lifted his device but Sal waved him off. She regarded him with interest, as if he were an animal that had done something unexpected. 

She walked over and took his chin in her hand, lifted it and examined him closely. Finally spoke. “This red hair is striking. Mags likes slaves with spirit. They’re so much more rewarding when they break.” He stared back defiantly but kept his mouth shut. 

Her grip on his chin tightened painfully. “The Gauntlet, little slave, is a maze, a trap and a work of art. Did you know some of those mercenary vermin? They got more than they bargained for.” She smiled secretively. “If the traps don’t get him, the turrets will. If he gets past the turrets, then it’ll be the ‘lurks or the gas or the radiation.” She released him and stepped back. “And if he gets past those, then he’ll face our boss in power armor and he’ll rip him limb from limb.” 

Deacon struggled to keep his face impassive, even as despair threatened to overwhelm him. Rational-self tried to argue that there was no evidence that it was M—him…but everything suddenly felt bleak and empty. 

Sal looked satisfied and turned back to the slaver. “We haven’t had a new victim for a while, so everyone's quite excited. Sometimes the Disciples' blood-lust gets carried away. Mags didn't want these....damaged. Hence me and my crew." Deacon dropped his eyes to the rough ground. He couldn’t bear to look at either of them. 

The slaver cleared his throat. “Before we talk price, how about a little demo?" He glanced over at Deacon and smiled maliciously as he pointed at him. "That one’s got one hell of a talented mouth once you get it open. You can try him out if you want. On the house." 

Sal looked at him. "Really." She sounded neither impressed nor particularly interested. 

The slaver nodded. "Yep. Consider it a good will offering." 

She hesitated and Deacon started to hope... But then she shrugged and held a hand out to him briskly. "Very well. Open your mouth." 

Deacon wasn't sure if he had ever heard that command issued in a less appealing way. The slaver pointedly shifted his gaze from him to Gail, still huddled on the ground. Deacon opened his mouth reluctantly and she slid her fingers in. Her nails were short and neatly filed. "Suck them for me, there's a good boy." 

When he did, the dirt from her hand gritty on his tongue, she slid them back till he thought he would choke or gag. He forced himself to continue, breathing slowly and steadily through his nose, though the spasms made his eyes tear up. Her eyebrows climbed. "Not bad. William might like you even better than Mags." 

She yanked her hand free and stepped back a few feet. "Hmmm... Lem, do you want him?" 

The younger of the two looked up. "Sure." 

She folded her arms. "Okay. I want to see the rest of him first, though. Take his clothes off." 

The slaver looked meanly gleeful. Deacon blinked and wiped his eyes with his tied hands. _Bastard._ He'd suspected it might come to this. Slow even breathing, forcing his muscles to relax. _All_ his muscles. Quick check that Gail was still curled up tightly, eyes closed. He moved a couple feet away from her on his knees just as Lem reached him, pulling a combat knife from his boot. He grabbed the neck of Deacon's tee and sliced through the shoulders and sides so that it fluttered to the ground. Then knelt behind him and reached around to the fastening of his trousers. Sal waited, tapping her fingers on her laser pistol, looking bored. Just another workday. The muscles of his thighs were trembling; Deacon tried to swallow down the fear, twisting his wrists inside the ropes until the sharp pain helped him regain control. Lem yanked his pants open and started to pull them down. Deacon took a last steadying breath, looking away. 

_SSszz-crack!_ The sound echoed across the small hollow. Warm liquid splattered across Deacon’s face and chest. Sal stiffened in his peripheral vision and the laser pistol fell from her hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a little off schedule because I went out of town and instead of writing in the hotel like a good author, I went out to restaurants and bars and tried a variety of new foods and cocktails. Then when I did write (drunk), it was waaaay too maudlin and over the top. Give me a couple days to revise and the next bit will be up!


	9. Must be love on the brain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up splitting this chapter because of a POV change. If it seems short, no fear, the second half will be along Friday!

Deacon dropped flat before he even fully took in Sal's body slumping bonelessly, head mostly gone. _MacCready...?_ Joy and relief made him feel a million years lighter. He craned his head and caught a flicker of light from the east. Lem jumped up behind him and drew his gun, started firing in that direction. The other Operator cursed and the slaver swung around and began fumbling for his weapon. Gail was down already, like the well-trained settlement kid she was. She opened her eyes briefly and looked at him and Deacon motioned her to stay down and still. 

Another gun shot, this time not preceded by the scary sound of a bullet racing by one’s head. That had been a hell of a shot, taking out Sal with less than three feet between them. Either it was MacCready out there, or Deacon might be the next casualty. The report was loud, meaning large caliber. Deacon thought it was a miss until Lem sank down, clutching his chest. He tried futilely to raise his gun and fire while blood bubbled from his lips. Deacon watched him dispassionately then another shot sounded and ended him forever. The slaver crouched down and started moving toward the nearest shelter, behind a tree or the Brahmin. The third Operator was sheltered behind a large deadfall. Deacon and the slaver were the last two figures in the open so now it would be…? 

Another shot hit the slaver square in the right shoulder, and the precision of the placement whispered, _MacCready, it had to be MacCready_ into his head. The control box slid from the slaver's twitching fingers and landed on the rough ground. Deacon's vision narrowed to that single rectangular object, that had repeatedly occupied his thoughts for the last day. The last Operator was returning fire eastward, and Deacon wondered if he should try to distract him or something, but common sense said that he’d likely get himself shot. 

The slaver, though, he had _business_ with that guy. He had fallen face up, close by. Groaning, blood spurting steadily from the shoulder wound. Deacon fastened up his pants and crawled across to him, moving awkwardly with his tied hands. 

He grabbed the control box first and moved it out of reach. The man had a knife on his belt. Deacon drew it and tried to cut his bonds and failed. The ropes were too tight and too high on his wrists. He scowled and reversed the knife, slashed experimentally at the slaver’s right leg. Cloth and flesh parted easily, leaving a long shallow cut. Nice and sharp. He held it up so the slaver could see it in his hands, the blade red with his own blood. "Too bad we don't have time," he spat. “I’d cut your tongue out. Just a little demo, on the house." 

The other man's eyes rolled frantically and he tried to get up, before falling back with a groan. His arm was soaked in blood. “It looks like my friend hit an artery, so you're getting off easy," Deacon said and stabbed him in the stomach. 

The slaver made a high-pitched keen and Deacon yanked the knife free. Rage was roaring through him, rage undercut with adrenaline and terror. The fear in the slaver's eyes was flickering in and out with other faces, also looking at him fearfully, half-remembered from long ago. Faces slashed with red, his fault, all his fault, and his hands dripping with blood and guilt. 

"Don’t kill me," the slaver gasped. “The control is a deadman’s switch." The words brought Deacon's mind back to the here and now, and _this_ asshole. Pushed the other memories aside with long practice. He'd wanted either god or satan to strike him down, but as was typical in this post-apocalypse, looked like neither was showing up. Leaving all the goddamned work to the living. 

"Too late—you're already _dead_ ," Deacon said. He feinted once with the knife and the other flinched and then he stabbed it into the ground next to his bleeding shoulder and limp right arm. Left it quivering there and tried to ignore how his hands were trembling and how much part of him had wanted to drive the knife into the slaver's eye. All the way, until it crunched through the thin bone at the back of the socket and into the brain. More gunshots behind him, and he ducked lower. _Remember MacCready._ He didn't want to be...that guy when MacCready found him. 

Deacon took a deep breath and picked up the box. He turned it over, looking for some button or switch that said, 'disarm' or 'unlock' or something. Row of lights on the front, with small buttons beneath. He already knew what those fucking buttons did. Two were lit with green lights—him and Gail. Bastard could control six slaves at a time. Deacon registered another gunshot and bits of wood flying out of the branch pile, followed by thrashing and a choked-off scream from the last Operator. Looked like Mac was going for a perfect score. The slaver gave a last rattling breath and his eyes fluttered closed. _And well done, let's give the boy a hand, folks!_

Mental-Dez said firmly that _laughter and applause were inappropriate reactions, Deacon_. He turned the box over again, wondering if there was a fucking battery compartment that he could take apart. What the hell powered it anyway? Change in the light reflected on his fingers and he turned it back. The green lights on the front had started flashing. He glanced over at Gail's collar and the green light on the side had begun flashing in time with the device. Shit, shit! He didn’t know what to do! 

Motion and the faint sound of yelling drew his eyes to a rock formation to the east. It was a prime sniper position. An Operator that he didn't recognize was striking at a prone figure with a sword, once, twice. _Where the fuck had that guy come from?_ Deacon scrambled to his feet and took a step forward, as the other fell back with a faint cry of pain that wrung his heart. _God, no, MacCready!_ He’d recognize that voice, that tone anywhere— MacCready swung and knocked the raider back, but he was moving more slowly than usual. The raider quickly regained his balance, lifted the sword again and stepped forward. Deacon’s nerves were screaming at him to help. The rocks were too steep. He couldn’t climb them fast enough. But he had to do something to buy Mac some time, a minute, an instant, something. 

_You can't, Deacon,_ mental-Dez said. _The collars!_ For an instant, Deacon was frozen in indecision but within the next all his walls and defenses crumbled and everything was suddenly, shockingly clear. Clear as crystal. _I can do this. I have to, to get it right this time._ He tucked the device under one arm and picked up the laser pistol next to Sal's dead form. His usual detachment was gone, baby, gone, leaving him as raw as an exposed nerve. He lifted the gun awkwardly between his bound hands and steadied his arms, which were still shaking. The last Operator was visible on the ridge, sword poised over his head. 

Deacon sighted, took a breath and gently squeezed. Again, again, again. The Operator recoiled and looked down at him. Again, again, again, until the trigger clicked on an empty magazine. No hits, but the distraction was enough—before the Raider could attack again, MacCready lifted a weapon, fired and he crumpled. Faint echo of the pistol shots rolled across the landscape. MacCready was safe now, he had to be, he couldn't see any more Operators in sight. Deacon dropped the pistol and lifted the device. The green lights had turned amber and were still flashing. 

_Turn it over, Deacon_ , mental-Dez snapped. _Look on the back or sides_. 

There! On one side, there was a recessed area with a small keyhole. Underneath was a single word, almost completely faded except for a ‘d—'. _If I were a murdering slaver, where would I keep a key? A_ dumb _murdering slaver,_ he amended, and grabbed his hands to check the wrists. Nothing. On a chain, around his neck? He yanked the collar down, noting that the skin already had a waxy tinge. Thin silver chain immediately visible. Bingo. He pulled it loose, and there was a small steel key at the end. The amber lights were flashing faster and started beeping, he could hear it faintly under his own chin. 

Hands trembling, struggling not to drop the tiny key... It slipped easily into the worn opening and clicked into place. He abruptly realized that 'd' could mean 'disarm' _or_ 'detonate'. Too late now to worry about it. He turned the key, holding his breath. There was a terrifying pause and then all the lights on the rectangular facing blinked off. And Gail's collar went completely black. He couldn’t see his own and waited for an instant to see if it detonated. It didn't. Gail’s didn’t. He whirled around and stared up at the rocky ridge and made out MacCready moving. _He_ was alive. Gail was breathing fast, her spindly arms over her head. Somehow, they were all three _still alive_ , in a ravine that was a mortuary, surrounded by the dead. 

He wasn’t alone anymore. _MacCready_ was here. _Gail_ was safe. Relief rushed through him, so strong it made him sway on his feet. Shattering epiphanies and realizations had haunted his life, flavored with loss and guilt from the past. He couldn't think in the face of this new one, he couldn't plan, he couldn't... _lie._ He was lost in the woods, on an unfamiliar road, one he hadn't traveled...in a long time. He wanted to scream or sob or laugh. His fingers loosened on the rough metal of the control box. But despite the whirlwind in his chest, he didn't drop it. No, he held it so very gently, then his legs finally gave way and he sank down on the rough ground and closed his eyes and went away.


	10. I'm so dizzy, don't know what hit me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Easter, if that's, y'know your thing. Happy Sunday if it's not. 
> 
> Updated the tags: have a little Hurt/Comfort. Hope you enjoy the chapter!

The raider got him twice with that damned sword—in the arm and the thigh. He swung his beloved rifle like a club to knock him back and was fumbling madly for his holdout pistol and thinking, _It's too late._ Pissed off at himself for not saving Gail and Deacon. Pissed off that he hadn't time to do a thorough scout of the area and had missed the outlying Operator. Pissed that the first sight he'd gotten of Deacon was when he'd looked over the ridge top and seen the raiders stripping off his clothes. If he'd had just a few extra seconds.... Kept trying, because the raider might miss his throat and then he'd still have a chance to shoot him. Even if he, MacCready bled out, with the rest of the raiders dead, Deacon could get Gail to safety. 

Then there was the sharp hiss of incoming laser fire—unmistakable even at this distance. Multiple shots. Had a moment of thankfulness that Deacon was up and healthy enough to grab a gun. The Operator ducked and cursed and looked down into the ravine. Reached toward his waist for a gun. But now MacCready's pistol was in his hands, his sweet little baby that had gotten him out of multiple nasty situations. Fired twice, hit the head and throat. The Operator crumpled and fell almost on top of him, sticky blood and brains from the wounds smearing across his shoulder, mixing with his own blood and soaking though his duster. 

MacCready pushed the body away from him in disgust and paused for a moment, catching his breath. Looked around. No other raiders in sight. He rolled over to scan the ground—Gail looked okay but now Deacon was down, slumped, his head sagging. He didn’t like the look of him. Was he wounded? Even as careful as he'd been, there still could have been a bullet fragment or a ricochet. He tried to jump up but he stumbled and his vision greyed. Blood loss from his stupid arm and his leg hurt. He didn’t want to take the time to treat it, not when Deacon might need him. Gave himself a quick once-over. Probably most of that blood was the Operator's, anyway. He grabbed one of the guy's belts and fastened it around his upper arm as a precautionary measure. Despite the pain from his leg, his ballistic weave trousers had stopped the slash from getting through. It was just bruised. _Ignore it._ He could walk...after a fashion. With the bleeding stopped, he managed to limp down into the now-quiet gully. 

Once he was within ten feet or so, Gail uncurled herself and hurtled toward him. "Gail, easy, sweetie, my leg can't take you jumping on me." He fended her off with one hand. Deacon still hadn't moved, leaning forward with his hands braced on the ground, head lowered so that he couldn't see his face. 

Gail burst into tears and clung to his duster. He only caught about every other word. "Is Deacon okay?" She cried harder. “Shh, it’s all right, honey.” He limped over as quickly as he could and knelt down in front of the other man, while Gail clung to his back, her sobs dying down to sniffles. He didn't see any injuries on Deacon and threw his arms around him. Oh god, he was so glad that they were both okay. He gave Gail's small head a quick kiss and she smiled, fragile but there. 

But after a couple of seconds, there was still no response from Deacon and MacCready pulled back and looked at him quizzically. "Deacon?" Head still lowered, eyes closed, no sunglasses, and splatters of blood across his upper body. The short mat of dark red hair on Deacon's head was damp with sweat. He ran a hand through it but didn’t find any wounds. He pulled Deacon against him and poured water from his canteen over a rag. Started to take Deacon’s chin in his hand and the other man flinched. Mac released him immediately and said, “Deacon, are you all right?" No answer. 

MacCready shoved the worry down and began gently wiping the blood off Deacon's face. The scrapes and bruising made Mac's jaw tighten with anger. He moved on to cleaning the blood from the pale skin of his neck and chest. "Deacon, talk to me, please—" 

Deacon finally stirred. His eyes were blank and blue and then they met MacCready's. Slow dawning of recognition. "Robert," he said hoarsely. “You—you came after us.” 

MacCready closed his eyes and had to breathe out, thankfulness rushing over him. Then he leaned forward until their foreheads touched. “Of course I did, you idiot.” There was a trickle of warmth down his injured arm with the movement. Not much. It could wait. 

Deacon sucked in a harsh breath. “How did you know—” 

“I knew about Nuka-World.” MacCready touched the injuries on Deacon’s face with careful, light fingers. “You’re hurt,” he said. “I have stimpaks.” He could feel Gail slowly relaxing against his back, like a small arc of warmth. 

Deacon shook his head. “It’s not bad. It wasn’t, I mean. Not yet—” He closed his eyes again and his breathing hitched. "Oh god, Robert, I'm so glad to see you, you have no fucking idea--" 

"Shhh, it's all right, I've got you." MacCready pulled him closer, wrapped his arms around him, forgetting about the last month of loneliness, of no contact, forgetting everything except that Deacon was here with him and safe. Deacon didn't protest, even moved closer and let his head rest on MacCready's shoulder. MacCready knew that he shouldn't let this...feeling overtake him. Deacon had made it plain that he wasn't in the market for a relationship. But even so, he allowed himself a minute to enjoy the smooth unbroken skin under his fingertips, the feather-light flutter of Deacon's breath. The anxiety, the outright fear that he’d never see the other man again….all faded away. All his nightmares and imaginings had hardly dared let him hope that he would reach them in time. Gail stirred against his back, leaning on him, looking unscathed, untouched but for the dirt on her face. He didn't know how Deacon had managed it. He knew too much about slavers and their ilk to imagine a pretty blonde child going ignored. 

He saw the deactivated slave collar control in Deacon's lap. He felt another flicker of wonder that the other man had managed so much on his own. He probably hadn't even needed MacCready, maybe he never would. He took the control and set it aside and noticed the ropes. His breath hissed out when he saw the abrasions on Deacon's wrists. "Bastards," he said angrily. Deacon didn't move while MacCready picked up his hands to look at them. Drew his combat knife and cut the ropes, carefully angling the knife so he didn't slice Deacon's skin. The last one fell away and he rubbed Deacon's cold hands, folded them against his chest. Deacon sighed and MacCready felt his lips move against the skin of his neck. "Thanks, that feels good." He felt a hot rush of blood down his arm but ignored it. 

“You need something to wear,” he said worriedly. “Are you cold?” The dirty remains of his t-shirt were on the ground a little ways away. The air was as warm as it ever got in the Commonwealth, but when he rubbed his bare back, Deacon’s skin felt clammy and chill. Was he shocky? He thought maybe he should give him a stimpak anyway. 

Deacon pulled away and stared at him. MacCready looked back, feeling confused. “Okay?” he ventured. Even without sunglasses, he sometimes had trouble reading Deacon’s expressions. MacCready automatically braced himself. Maybe now was the moment that Deacon would turn back into cold snarky Deacon and say something like, _Hey MacCready, you should see a doctor about that problem you have where you’re all over me._

Instead he leaned forward and put his hands on either side of MacCready's face. "Thank you, Robert," he murmured. Then Deacon closed his eyes and pulled his face toward his, lips parted slightly. MacCready had a moment of pure shock, thinking _He’s going to—no, no don't think it, don't get your hopes up,_ before he realized that Deacon was getting farther away, not closer. He, MacCready was slipping sideways, cold like dark water washing over him. As if from far away, he saw Deacon's eyes open wide in alarm. “Robert, you're bleeding!" 

Numb face, numb lips, made it hard to speak but he managed to say, "Stimpaks are in the tin, sorry." He fell onto his side as lightly as a feather, as cold as a snowflake as the color slid out of the world around him. He was feeling grey. _Grey, like the absence of red, get it? Ha ha._

"No, no, damnit MacCready," he heard Deacon say. Pulled his pack off and then Deacon's hands turned him over, so gentle, giving his torso a frantic once-over before touching the belt. He yanked it tight until the pain made MacCready gasp. Then he heard the snick-snick sound of fabric parting under a knife. Felt cold air on his skin that contrasted violently with the warmth of his blood. It was always a surprise, how hot it felt, pouring outside your body instead of being inside where it was supposed to be. MacCready closed his eyes because the sun, even hidden behind clouds, was like a spike of fire in his skull. "MacCready, no, no, open your eyes," Deacon said. He sounded upset. 

Gail said, "What's wrong with Mac?" And she sounded scared. Couldn't do that, not frighten her after everything that she’d been through. He opened his eyes obediently and managed a weak smile in her direction. Deacon pulled the cap off a stimpak with his teeth and began injecting around the edges of the cut. 

Deacon's other hand touched MacCready's cheek when he started to close his eyes again. "Mac, stay with me, baby, _please."_ He injected the center last and MacCready groaned in pain. He finished the stimpak and tossed it aside. Began carefully wiping the blood off MacCready's arm, turning it to get a better view. "Is this the only one? MacCready, talk to me or I'll have to strip you and you know what'll happen." 

MacCready struggled to push the words out. "Yeah, wouldn't want to...traumatize Gail. That's all, it was stupid of me to let him get that close." MacCready winced as the burn of the stimpak coalesced into the weird stretching, pins and needles sensation of the wound closing. 

Deacon shook his head and leaned forward. MacCready felt his lips touch his forehead. "Don't say you're stupid, Robert. Ever." Then he pulled back and looked at his arm again, pursing his lips. "Your color’s crap. Do you have any blood?” Deacon began rummaging through MacCready's pack. MacCready shook his head and was vaguely surprised when it didn't fall off and roll across the ravine. 

Deacon made a dissatisfied sound. “You're way too pale." He pulled out a bottle of water and opened it. “Drink this.” Waited until MacCready took a sip, which seemed to placate him. He straightened up and looked around the hollow. 

"Gail, stay with Mac," he ordered. “You, stay down and drink that whole thing.” He started searching the bodies of the Operators then dragging them under cover. MacCready worked on finishing the water, drinking slowly so he wouldn't puke it up and watched him. He couldn’t fault Deacon’s actions even if he felt like he should be helping. When he started to sit up, Gail put a small hand on his chest and looked worried. "Deek said stay down." 

MacCready smiled at her dozily. "Yeah, and if Deek said to jump over a cliff?" Laughed to himself, imagining it and then more at Gail's expression. Since when was Gail hanging on Deacon's every word, he thought. There was a feeling that he should be jealous, should perhaps fuss and demand which of them did she think she should listen to—but strangely enough, he can't get that worked up. He was still too happy that Deacon was alive. Gail liking him was just another way the two of them were similar, try as he might not to dwell on it. 

Her lower lip pouched out. “You’re not gonna die, are you? You better not.” 

He surprised himself with another rusty chuckle. They were sitting on Nuka-World’s doorstep, which was full of raiders, he couldn’t shoot _anything_ right now to save his life and Deacon and Gail still had on those fu—fricking slave collars. He should be half-terrified instead of wondering about a lack of jealousy. Frightened instead of feeling like things were ...perfect. Just like when a shot flicked into focus, and it was _gravy._ “I'm not dying today, honey. Promise.” 

After a couple of more minutes, he saw with no surprise at all that Deacon had managed to find a pair of sunglasses, in addition to a spare shirt. The shirt was tight, showing the muscles of his arms and chest, muscles that were usually hidden under a padded jacket or one of his loose tees. As if feeling his gaze, he glanced over at MacCready. "Your color's finally coming back," he said. "I found some Med-X, do you want it?" 

MacCready smiled at him a little crookedly. "No way. Too bad, though," he said, gesturing to the glasses. "I liked seeing your eyes." 

The lenses flashed as Deacon looked up, and he grinned. "No problem, babe. Make an appointment and take all the time you want." MacCready liked seeing Deacon's eyes, but he liked hearing his snarky tone even more. Even the sarcastic endearment didn't bother him. Deacon walked over to where the slaver lay and kicked him over on his face before opening his pack. "Ah-ha." Deliverer gleamed amongst the other dreck. Deacon picked it up and reloaded it, gathered up the extra ammo and stuffed it all into a salvaged pack. 

By the time he came back to check on MacCready, he was sitting up despite Gail's protests and feeling antsy. “We need to get going. I can’t believe no one’s come this way.” 

“They’re busy,” Deacon said shortly. Then he knelt down to look at his arm, tracing the red line where the cut had been with careful fingers. 

MacCready fidgeted and said, "Well, mom, is it all right? Can we go now?" 

"If we go slow enough for the gimp," Deacon retorted. The he flashed MacCready what looked like a real genuine smile and curved one hand along the side of his face and leaned forward, their faces almost touching. "Robert, you dummy. Next time stop for a stimpak, okay? Don't scare me like that." The slave collar was a clunky line of metal against the smoothness of his throat. 

Mac's heart rate increased dizzyingly and his pulse was furiously loud in his ears. He cleared his throat and pulled away. He couldn't take Deacon being that close without—without _wanting..._

MacCready pulled his pack over and grabbed a lockpick and a bobby pin. "Lift your chin." Deacon was still close enough to kiss. To touch, he meant, he was close enough to touch. "Let me?" he asked, gesturing to the collar. Deacon nodded. Mac's fingers were light and steady and his mind clear as he examined it, aftereffects of the stimpak. It was an older model, one that he was very familiar with, but not the exploding kind, thank god. "Let's get this fu-fricking thing off. Deactivated or not, I don't like seeing it on you." 

"Can you?" Deacon breathed out. "I figured we'd have to wait or..." MacCready slid his fingers between the collar and the skin of Deacon's neck and Deacon's voice trailed off. 

"I've been taking these things off people since I was twelve," MacCready said, concentrating. "Guy from a vault taught me after he got a couple of our kids away from slavers." Tricky double catch against the skin, released precisely with the lockpick and then quickly slip the two on the opposite side before it re-latched. 

Careful maneuvering, and then a barely-heard click and it fell apart in his hands. Held it up triumphantly. Deacon stared at it and then at him, and then swallowed hard. MacCready wasn't sure what to make of his reaction. He had a red line around his throat where it had pressed. Gail whimpered and MacCready looked down. "You're next, sweetie." 

She crawled onto his lap and lifted her chin. "It itches, Mac." Began the process all over again. 

"MacCready, I have to say, I’m—" Deacon said, low, sounding weird and MacCready frowned. 

He couldn't look away from Gail's collar, it was tighter and tinier and harder to finesse than Deacon's had been. "Just a sec, Deac," he said absently and Deacon fell silent. 

Once she was free, he grabbed a sturdy branch for a makeshift walking stick and chivied them all up, grabbed his pack to get them on the road. They desperately needed to put some distance between themselves and Nuka-World, like, _now, now, now._ No time for discussion, and yeah, he really _meant_ no time for discussion, _Deacon._ They had to move before another set of raiders came along and messed up all his good work. 

MacCready led the Brahmin away behind a branchpile to slit its throat while Deacon distracted Gail. Then they scraped dirt over the puddles of blood. When they'd finished, the little gully looked almost untouched. They turned their faces south and started the long walk back to Jamaica Plains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notice any...changes? *grins* (Besides the different set of song lyrics-chapter titles anyway)


	11. What would I do without your smart mouth?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, work again, boo hiss. Hope you enjoy! This has a bit of PTSD, almost-rape-recovery stuff in it.

Deacon, Gail and MacCready went south, the rough ground playing merry hell with Mac's leg, until they reached the road that went by Fort Hagen. Blue and company, including himself, he was proud to say, had pretty well cleared that whole area so it was about as safe as the Commonwealth got. MacCready was less familiar with the area between the fort and Jamaica Plains. He pulled up a map on the Pip-boy that Blue had given him and showed it to Deacon. He leaned close to look at it, holding his wrist and frowning. His hands were warm against the bare skin of MacCready's left arm. Deacon had gotten way too enthusiastic when treating that measly cut. It felt ridiculous, having multiple sleeves on his right arm and his left bare. It occurred to him, too late to be useful, that he might have gotten an extra shirt off the Operators that wasn't ripped or blood-soaked. He shrugged mentally. He wouldn't go back to that little death valley for love or money. 

Deacon turned his arm and tapped a cross-hatched line on the Pip-boy's screen. "Railroad tracks. Pretty sure we have a waystation along here. Good place to rest." 

"Waystations on railroad tracks...When you guys pick a theme, you really stick to it, don't you?" MacCready commented wryly. It startled a brief smile from Deacon, which made MacCready feel better. 

The first waystation was southeast of Fort Hagen and held the mummified body of a settler—or a synth dressed as a settler, who could tell? MacCready grimaced and was glad that he'd made Deacon and Gail wait outside. One stealth boy and a couple of bottles of water were left on the looted shelves. He climbed the rickety ladder out and shut the hatch hastily. Shook his head at Deacon, who started tickling Gail and then pulled her out of the station and down the stairs. 

Deacon hunted around outside and then pointed to one of their chalk marked signs on a train car. "A cache," he said. He stuck his head inside and hoisted himself up, the muscles of his arms flexing. MacCready could appreciate Deacon's lean form, even as he knew he probably should not be appreciating. Deacon looked around and then disappeared inside. 

Gail danced back and forth from one foot to the other. "I want up, too." She looked at MacCready and held her arms over her head. "Up!" MacCready looked back dubiously. He wasn't sure he could lift her with his one dumb arm. Maybe she could get on his shoulders? 

He had knelt down next to her when Deacon reappeared. "Got some goodies, ammo and food. But—don’t you dare open that cut again, MacCready," he said, then jumped down lightly. He lifted Gail up and half-tossed her in, making her squeal with glee. Then he turned to MacCready, while the latter was glumly measuring the distance from the ground to the flat floor of the car. "Want a lift, lover?" 

Okay, well...that was technically true, which was a fu-friggin' miracle but the context was way off. MacCready looked at him suspiciously but his face and voice were utterly bland, revealing nothing. He shoved his pack and his rifle inside and sighed. "Yeah, I guess." Man, crap like this made him hate being short, when most of the time it didn't bother him that much. Shi-uh, cruddy wasteland, everyone had something wrong with them. Lucy had had weak eyes, all those years of reading in bad light. Deacon bent and joined his hands together. MacCready put the foot of his uninjured leg in them with bad grace, holding the edge of the car to keep his balance. Deacon lifted and MacCready found himself neatly deposited inside. 

Most everybody had something wrong with them. If sight and...uh, memory served, there wasn't much wrong with Deacon. Physically. Emotionally, you had that whole 'lies his head off and then disappears.' 

There was ammo, water, crisps, fancy lads and salisbury steak in the cache. Almost a feast. Deacon popped the top off the can and he and Gail started stuffing their mouths with chips. MacCready tugged at the train door experimentally and was rewarded when it slid closed with a groan and latched. It wouldn't keep out humans but the average wasteland creature still hadn't figured out how to open doors and the Nuka-world raiders didn't venture far from their base. He sat down and picked up the salisbury steak. "Give me that, you heathens." 

"If you'd been eating what we have—" Deacon replied. 

Gail started giggling. "Icky, fishy—" Deacon shushed her with a conspiratorial look and she quieted. MacCready looked back and forth between them. Some in-joke, he guessed. After they spread out their loot, Gail gobbled down a portion of salisbury, water and two cakes before crawling into MacCready's sleeping bag, asleep before she'd hardly stopped moving. 

Deacon and MacCready sat companionably shoulder to shoulder while they ate. The enclosed space was surprisingly warm and cozy. MacCready licked the sugar off his fingertips and contemplated the last cake. Box of seven—an odd number. Well, Gail was asleep and there was no sense letting it go to waste. He pulled it out of the box and snuck a quick glance at Deacon, nudged him with his shoulder. Deacon ignored him; instead, he took another swallow of water and yawned, leaning his head back against the steel wall. 

All right, well, he'd had his chance to object. MacCready started to unwrap it and Deacon suddenly uncoiled like a cat. Smack! He knocked it out of MacCready's hand and it tumbled to the other side of the car. 

"You—" MacCready mock-glared at Deacon who shrugged. "Oh, is that how it's gonna be?" 

Deacon said, "The person rescued from a fate worse than literal _death_ should get the last snack cake." 

MacCready said, "Nah, the person who rescued the person gets it. _You_ already had two." He tensed, watching Deacon's body language. 

The other man shrugged and said, "So did you. Yeah, but see listen to this—" and suddenly dove toward it. MacCready was ready and landed right next to him and batted it away. Then when Deacon tried to reach out, he yanked his arm out from under him and he fell on his shoulder. MacCready grabbed for the small plastic pouch and Deacon bumped his arm, sent it flying over by the closed door. Deacon tried to roll over and MacCready pushed him down and sat on him, leaned forward to grab it. Deacon heaved upward, tipping him off and pounced, wrapped his arms around Mac's shoulders, short satisfied huff escaping his lips. 

MacCready was laughing breathlessly, and kicked back with one leg, hitting one of Deacon's knees and making him tumble sideways. He recovered quickly, pushed Mac down and crawled on top of him to grab it. Now the cake resembled a clear plastic bag of white frosting and goo. 

MacCready tried to push Deacon off of him and failed. "It's a good thing that's a snack cake," he heaved again, forcing Deacon to brace himself with legs spread over Mac's hips, "and not a _handcuff_ key." 

Deacon laughed. "No one appreciates a smartass, babe." While Deacon was distracted, Mac managed to snatch the cake and shoved it, plastic and all, halfway inside his mouth and raised his eyebrows at him challengingly. He didn't care about the cake, well, not _much,_ but seeing Deacon cheerful enough to squabble over it made up for everything. 

Deacon shifted until he was lying on top of MacCready and pinned his hands. Then put his face close enough to grab the plastic in his teeth. It ripped violently, shedding frosting and cake crumbs everywhere. MacCready spat out his half of the plastic wrapper and Deacon gathered up a glob of frosting with his fingers and stuck it in Mac's mouth. 

" _You_ appreciate a smartass," MacCready retorted around the frosting and laughed again, mouth open. Probably gross but whatever. Speaking of which... He pulled one wrist free and scraped up some loose cake and frosting and touched it to Deacon's lips. 

Deacon's smile faded and MacCready waited. But all he said was, "Yeah, I do." Then he leaned down and deliberately licked at the cake on Mac's fingers before enclosing them in his mouth. MacCready's heart skipped a beat. Some frosting was smeared across his mouth and all he could think about was how delicious it looked. Deacon stared at him, and MacCready pulled his fingers out of the silky wetness of his mouth. Deacon's body was long and warm and infinitely comforting against his own. 

MacCready swallowed hard and wanted desperately to grab the back of Deacon's head, pull him closer and kiss him. Coax his lips apart to taste the sweetness of his mouth and see if it was as sweet as the cake. He settled for touching Deacon's lips lightly and Deacon's shoulders suddenly tensed. Muscle twitching in his jaw. The bruised scrapes on his face and jaw were a dark purple, looking more like stage makeup than actual injuries. If Deacon had drawn them on, they would have looked more ...dramatic, instead of being marks of the kind of casual violence you could find anywhere in the Wastes. He cupped Deacon's cheek in his hand and smoothed his thumb over the edge of his mouth. 

Deacon looked about to say something but then sat up with a convulsive heave. Scooted over to lean against the wall of the car and brought his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. "We should rest for a bit and start again around dusk," he said, and the words were fine, unexceptional, but his tone was nearly hoarse with strain. MacCready would really fu-freaking like it if he never had to hear Deacon sounding like that again. 

MacCready got up slowly, no sudden moves. Then sat cross-legged against the wall of the train car next to him and tried to make his tone casual—close enough if Deacon wanted to reach out, but not actually touching him. Because people were...shy of touch, after...just, sometimes. "Yeah, man. Sounds like a good plan." Pretended not to see Deacon's slow exhalation and the way his head dropped onto his knees, the lines of his body tight and defensive. He kinda wished he could go back and shoot that ... _fucking_ slaver a few more times. All of them, actually. Kneecaps first so they couldn't get away. 

They sat in silence, listening to Gail's sleepy exhalations. Deacon uncurled gradually, first releasing his knees, then letting his arms fall to his sides, and finally shifting to a cross-legged position. _Almost_ relaxed, but MacCready could see tension lingering in his shoulders and the whole thing made him mad and worried and a mess of other mixed up emotions. 

Deacon gave him a _look_ and MacCready knew his face, his posture probably gave it all away to the other's experienced eye. He took a deep breath and made an effort to look calm and collected and Deacon smiled wearily. "That the best you got? That truly sucked, MacCready, my small yet ferocious lo—uh, friend." 

MacCready ignored the obvious baiting comment about 'small' and grabbed the tin of stimpaks out of his pack. "We have plenty, Deacon. Take one." 

Deacon snorted, his voice as thin as cut crystal. "Tactful, MacCready. Just say it. 'Hey, Deacon did those raiders stripping off your clothes rape you?' 'Why, no, MacCready, it was on the agenda but the schedule got shot.' Ha-ha. Get it?" 

"Deacon, don't," MacCready said. Whatever had or hadn't happened was Deacon's business but the thin edge of pretend levity in his voice felt like a last desperate disguise, a mask grown painfully thin. Mocking the question that he secretly, really wanted answered. That hurt to hear. 

And he didn't know what to say because what he wanted to say, _I don't care, it doesn't change how I feel, it doesn't matter, you're still the smartest, most capable person I know (except Blue)_...sounded, he didn't know, messy, borderline condescending, and too emotional...which Deacon totally didn't need _more_ pressure, dealing with MacCready's emotions, that wasn't what he wanted... And anyway, it wasn't about _him, MacCready_. He had to stop himself from clenching his fists in frustration, sure that Deacon would notice and take it the wrong way. He'd never regretted not being smarter more. 

Deacon went on, "I could write a poem. You know, to process my trauma. I wasn't raped, but threatened twice, then stripped, felt up and in fear of my life—" 

"That sounds pretty sucky," MacCready interrupted, in complete frustration, hoping that Deacon would understand what he was trying to say. _(don't worry about my reaction because it doesn't diminish you, not to me, not ever.)_ "Tell you what, let's work together on this. Teamwork. I'll shoot 'em and then you can stab them. Or reverse, really, I can be flexible." 

Deacon sighed and rubbed his eyes under the sunglasses. "That the MacCready treatment plan?" 

"Well, once it was 'run like hell while everything you love is ripped apart' but I'm reaching back to my younger days. I'm thinking I like this one better, don't you?" 

Deacon gave him a sideways look and half-smiled. "Yeah, I guess so. I do." 

He seemed so alone that MacCready's heart wrung. Hesitated and then slid an arm around him, ready to pull back if he tensed up or moved away. Relieved when Deacon leaned into him instead. "You should rest," he offered diffidently. "Put your head in my lap. I'll wake you in an hour or so when it's dark." 

Deacon bit his lip and then said, "Okay, yeah, I'd—I'd like that." He lay down and tucked one hand under his cheek. MacCready looked down at him, eyes hidden behind the sunglasses, and touched his head gently. He'd never seen Deacon's natural hair before—well...not the hair on his head. It was short, barely there, but soft with a hint of a curl. He rubbed gently, working his fingers through it and Deacon sighed. The mark from the slave collar around his neck had faded to a soft bluish line that moved when he spoke. 

"Sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have jumped down your throat." 

MacCready put one finger over his mouth. "It's all right. Relax." Stroked his hair again, marveling at the softness and how much it changed the look of his familiar face. It made him look...younger. More peaceful. He massaged his scalp, fingers moving gently, rhythmically and was rewarded when Deacon's eyes closed and his body relaxed. 

"Don't get too attached, 'm shaving it off once we get back," Deacon mumbled sleepily. 

MacCready could see the double-meaning—the warning— beneath the words, even if Deacon's voice (for once) was honestly weary with no undertones. It didn't matter, though. _Too late_ , he mouthed down at him silently. Already too late...at least for him. 

 

After leaving the train car, they stuck to the tracks since they were going the direction that they wanted, toward an intact bridge littered with the burned-out corpses of cars. The area around the railroad tracks was quiet and the trees thin enough that visibility was good, even in the dimming light. Night was falling fast, their shadows long and dark at their feet and the sun sinking in a blaze of orange and red. Blue and company had personally blown up about half the cars on it, which really cut down on places for baddies to hide. Smoke was rising from the next nearest bridge so they'd been wise to avoid it. There was a super-mutant nest down the road from it at the old coast guard station, which attracted all kinds of trouble. 

They crossed the bridge without incident and MacCready breathed a sigh of relief. One more obstacle behind them. They were two-thirds of the way back to Jamaica Plains—according to his Pip-boy map, up ahead another set of tracks crossed the road south before turning almost due east. Those should take them nearly all the way home. They found them without incident and climbed the causeway. Gail was bright and perky after her nap and he had to keep shushing her. These tracks were more elevated than the other line making the visibility even better. 

Which worked against them when they rounded the corner of an overturned train car and caught sight of a little group of three or four people just ahead. Who saw them at the same time. The others weren't dressed like Raiders. Not Gunners or ghouls or Super Mutants. Even Deacon was lulled by the pause as both groups stared at each other blankly, MacCready's tired brain trying and failing to fit their dark silhouettes into a category. Settlers? But they're too far from any settlement. Not Minutemen. Not Brotherhood or Railroad. Not Atom Cats or scavengers or a trade caravan. 

Which really only left—oh crap. One of the others lifted a gun with a distinctive outline, and a round dish-shaped barrel and he shouted a warning, grabbing for his rifle. 

"In the name of Atom," the cultist called and fired. 

MacCready's hastily-aimed shot wasn't fatal, hitting the Child in the upper arm instead of the chest. Then Mac was turning, frantically pushing Deacon and Gail behind him. His duster had ballistic weave while their clothing offered no protection at all. Deacon lifted Deliverer and fired two quick shots over his shoulder. That got another one of the Children in the leg and he fell. MacCready scooped Gail up and yanked Deacon sideways and the first poisonous green bolt raced by and detonated against a tree. More shots fired, which miraculously missed them but in the hectic confusion of ducking and weaving and trying to keep himself between the Children and Gail and Deacon, MacCready stepped off into the air where the embankment sloped sharply downward. He fell, accidentally pulling them with him and they tumbled down, MacCready clutching Gail to his chest with her small skull tucked under his chin, bearing the impacts on his knees and elbows. They fetched up against a tangled mess of river-downed trees and boulders. MacCready's weak leg slammed into a rock the size of a mirelurk and he barely suppressed a cry of pain. 

Deacon landed lightly next to him and grabbed MacCready's arm and looked back behind them. MacCready could hear confusion, more shots and the injured cultist yelling. None of the cultists were visible at the top of the embankment but it could only be a matter of seconds. Deacon scooted forward and looked over the edge of the boulder. 

From the top, the deadfall looked like it was right on the edge of the water but that was an optical illusion; beyond it, there was another six-foot drop down to the muddy silt at the edge. Gail tried to squirm loose from his grasp; she was mercifully unharmed but for a couple of scrapes on her legs. Deacon pointed downward sharply and then pulled him and Gail over the edge before MacCready could protest. Something in his leg cracked painfully as they fell onto soft sand at the very edge of the water. He looked around quickly but no mirelurks erupted, which was a welcome surprise. He tried to get up and fell back, panting. That tore it. His leg wouldn't take his weight. "Take her, quick, _run_ ," he told Deacon and pushed Gail into his arms. 

Another of the Children shouted "Atom will purify the faithful and the unworthy!" 

Sounded like they were still on the tracks. Their position here sucked; if the Children thought to look over the edge of the deadfall, then they'd be able to shoot straight down at them like fish in a barrel. Couldn't blame Deacon for going to ground, of course it was his first instinct. Heading down the riverbank would be too visible unless... He pulled the Stealth boy loose from the loop on his pack and started to fasten it around Deacon's wrist. _They_ could get away. When he finished, Deacon still hadn't moved and Mac waved at him impatiently. "Stealth, hurry, I'll hold them off!" 

Deacon shook his head and grabbed his arm, yanked him close. "I can't—I'm not leaving you!" 

MacCready stared at him in disbelief. "I can't walk, Deacon! And I can take out three Children," he said, trying to sound more confident than he was. Their guns were deadly and most of them were good shots, too. Blue usually went _around_ their encampments and she was a half-crazy, enhanced Pre-war soldier. He could hear movement now and the injured cultist quieted. In another few seconds they would leave the tracks and start down the side. Deacon and Gail _had_ to be stealthed and headed away from here by then. There was a hollow in the bank under the deadfall, where the river water had eroded it. It was too shallow to hide him completely but it was better than nothing. Once Deacon and Gail left, he'd tuck himself into it and hope that they'd be content to search along the railroad's slopes and not think about going down to the water's edge. 

Deacon adjusted the Stealth boy settings. _Good, he was coming to his senses_. But instead of using it, he set Gail in the curve of his arm and wrapped the other one around MacCready's waist. Then shoved the three of them into the hollow of the undercut bank and triggered it. The field shimmered into existence with a faint metallic ring, just as they both heard the Children stumbling down the bank above them.


	12. What's going on in that beautiful mind?

It wasn't perfect; MacCready wasn't an expert but even he could see that. The field was thinner, and the edges were more shimmery than usual. Probably if the Children looked carefully enough, they'd be able to see Deacon's outline because he was the one most exposed... Gail slid down from Deacon’s arms and scuttled behind a displaced rock that was nearly as big as she was. She barely fit. Deacon ducked his head under the dirt overhand and pressed himself and MacCready into the deepest part of the shallow erosion. MacCready’s injured leg spasmed, and his knee buckled. He grabbed Deacon’s shoulders to steady himself and the other man leaned forward and half-lifted him, before bracing him upright with his thigh between MacCready’s own. MacCready’s face flamed in embarrassment and he was glad it was dark under the bank. A rock in the silt was digging into his shoulder. He shifted and dirt sifted down the back of his collar. 

"Shhhh," Deacon said, almost soundlessly. They both froze, Deacon pressed against him, his body almost indecently warm and all his hard bones and edges matching with MacCready's. He closed his eyes and fought the impulse to tilt his hips the tiniest bit forward, to push their hips together even more perfectly, until he could feel every inch of him. The way that he remembered it, god, he'd spent so much time remembering it. 

There was the snap of foliage crackling underneath feet. At least two sets of feet. "Atom burns the wicked!" That one sounded about twenty yards away. MacCready held his breath and Deacon leaned his head forward against MacCready's shoulder; he could feel the faintest whisper of air on the sensitive skin of his neck. Then Deacon turned his head and his lips brushed MacCready's earlobe, as if to whisper to him. He said nothing but the contact made warmth flush over MacCready, and shrank the pain in his injured leg to a minor discomfort. 

"Atom's glory will ever be revealed. Do you see anything, brother?" A different voice, heavier footsteps coming down the slope. Closer to them. MacCready felt his heart thumping in his ears, almost loudly enough that he was afraid they'd hear it. Deacon's thigh shifted the tiniest amount, probably an unconscious tensing of the muscles, but the friction between his legs made his groin tighten, simmering with heat. Mac's fingers gripped his shoulder. _Not helping, Deacon,_ he wanted to whisper. Didn't because another voice spoke then, startling both of them horribly. Deacon pressed tighter, as if to push them into the soft dirt and MacCready had to bite his lip to keep from making a sound. 

"Atom will scourge the unworthy in the holy dividing fire of his communion!" This last one sounded as if he was almost on top of them. The cultist must be standing directly above on the deadfall, after having walked soundlessly down the slope. If he took two steps forward... MacCready had the mad urge to look up and see if he could spot him through the loose mass of dirt and tree roots over their heads. A small rock fell and bounced off Deacon's back and fell toward the river. For an instant, MacCready was sure that it was going to keep bouncing, impacting louder each time, until it fell into the water with a betraying plop. Leading the Child's eyes downward, maybe causing him to climb down and investigate further.... 

Thud. The rock fell into the dirt with barely a sound. Deacon's hand tightened on his hip, and uh, when had he grabbed MacCready there? Good to know that he could be about to die and still be capable of being distracted. 

A long pause and then the one farther north said, "Atom tests us, brother." A couple of murmured assents and then the noisier ones retreated, climbing the embankment and then moving further away. 

They waited a long time after the sounds died away before daring to move, unsure if the quiet one was truly gone. MacCready felt frozen in place, torn between pulling Deacon closer or pushing him away. For one thing, he was pretty sure...now...that Deacon _wasn't_ , uh...hard, while he, MacCready was going to be embarrassed as soon as he stopped being terrified. As if he needed _more_ confirmation of Deacon's disinterest in anything MacCready. The Stealth field faded with a barely-heard click and they shimmered back into existence. Then MacCready pushed Deacon's shoulder, putting a small much-needed space between their bodies and whispered, “What the hell was that?” 

Gail crawled over the rock and looked around. Deacon moved back, brushing dirt off his shoulders. “Language, MacCready.” He lifted her up and re-tied the laces of her sneakers and made an effort to dust off her jeans. Her ruffled pink tee was a chiaroscuro of varying unpleasant stains and looked beyond saving. She sneezed, leaving a runner of snot on her face. MacCready wiped her nose and then shook his hand. Yuck. Deacon pulled out a greyish rag and handed it to him. 

MacCready took it and scowled at him while he wiped his hand off. Then he struggled out of the little hollow. No one and no thing in sight on the river bank. He grabbed one of the deadfall branches and managed to pull himself up enough to see over the top. Empty slope, empty tracks. It was a miracle that they weren’t all puking from radiation poisoning. Or _dead._ The branch that he was holding broke and he nearly fell, hissing in pain as his injured leg took his weight. Deacon grabbed him around the waist and eased him lower until he was sitting on the bank. 

MacCready grabbed his shoulders, mad enough to hit him, or kiss him and damn the consequences. “You should have taken Gail and run, like I told you to!” 

Deacon stared at him. This close, MacCready can see the faint outlines of his eyes through the reflective lenses. He looked uncharacteristically serious. “And leave you behind to die? No fucking way, MacCready, not _ever.”_

Gail flung her arms around him and MacCready patted her shoulder. He wanted to say _who said anything about dying?_ He couldn’t quite manage it. It would have been a near thing. Thing is, that wouldn't have necessarily bothered him if they'd gotten away. Because ever since Lucy died, part of him had been waiting for it to be his turn—for claws to reach out of the dark and grab him, to be left behind and finally make up for what he'd failed to do for her. 

A soft mineral-smelling breeze off the black water ruffled his hair. He dropped his eyes and stared out over the landscape, which was quickly fading into a vague grey in the twilight. "Yeah, well, what about—" and he jerked a thumb at Gail, not wanting to finish the sentence in front of her. 

Deacon knelt down next to him and yanked at MacCready's pack, his motions sharp and irritated. "What about you, MacCready?" he snapped. "Do you think for one minute that I could live with leaving you behind when I lo—when I—I—" He stuttered to a stop and finally finished, "when I owe you my fucking life!" Deacon rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. "I've doubled up on Stealth-boys before," he said patiently. "We're going to need all of us to get back safe. I figured it was our best chance." 

Gail looked at him with wide eyes. "And hey, look, I was right—nobody's dying," Deacon told her. She smiled tremulously and he ruffled her hair. 

He pulled out the tin lunchbox that held the stimpaks and started feeling along MacCready's leg, massaging the painfully quivering muscle. By the time MacCready realized that he was looking for the best spot to inject it, he had pulled the cap off and squirted out the air bubble. 

MacCready grabbed his wrist. "What are you doing? I don't need that, it's probably just a sprain." 

Deacon's shoulders tensed. "You just said that you couldn't walk." 

"I probably can now. We should save that just in case." 

"Stop arguing, MacCready." He sounded frustrated. "Just let me do this for you!" Deacon plunged the needle into his leg. MacCready's teeth snapped together at the familiar rush. In a few minutes, he could stand and even run. He didn't care much for the jittery feeling but it was good if you had to run for your life. Not that they spent the next couple of hours _running._

Deacon was well and truly spooked, MacCready guessed, because he insisted they creep from cover to cover at a snail's pace from that point on, several times even making MacCready and Gail hide while he scouted ahead. Even without a Stealth boy, he could move soundlessly and usually disappeared from MacCready’s sight as soon as he moved away. MacCready crouched in the lee of a rusted-out car with Gail and tried not to feel like a baby radstag hidden by a doe. They didn't need to do this, his leg was _fine_. Now. Deacon was being ridiculous and it was _making_ him _crazy._

Hours later, they crept over a last hill and saw a rundown pair of buildings next to a lake. "Marina," Deacon murmured. "I know it. It's empty—we can get some rest before moving on." The moon was half-full, casting an eerie light that reflected off the water of the small lake. 

Deacon picked up Gail who had begun to walk with the tired head-down gait of the very old or the very young and propped her on his hip. Then he grabbed MacCready's arm and hustled them across the road to the pair of buildings. One had reinforced sandbags barricading the front. Deacon unlocked the door and they stepped inside cautiously. 

MacCready lifted a finger to shush Gail while Deacon re-locked the door. Mac quickly prowled around the small building. It was empty. There were a couple of mattresses and a desk and a safe upstairs. Half the ceiling was caved in but it was a clear night so no worries there. The important thing was there was only one entrance, reinforced by the sandbags and guarded by a lookout station upstairs. All the downstairs walls were solid, and the windows were securely boarded over. It was, hands down, the most defensible non-settlement he'd seen for a while. He wondered if it was another Railroad waystation, but he really didn't care. He already knew that he wanted to spend the night, longed for a tiny stretch of safety. Making a quick camp wouldn't take long—but he wasn't sure Deacon would see it that way. 

Gail ended up making his point for him. When he went downstairs, he found them sitting on a couch in front of the remains of a campfire, the wood black and sodden. Deacon had found the Sugar bombs in his pack and Gail was munching sleepily, her eyes glassy. 

MacCready shook his head as he watched her try to open her eyes, only for them to half-close again an instant later. "She can't go any further tonight." 

"Doesn't look like it," Deacon agreed. Then he cocked his head at MacCready. "We could just haul her along like a sack of grain, but somehow I'm not feeling you go for it." 

MacCready was poking around behind the short counter. "Be hard to fight off an ambush if we're carrying her. Much less see one at this time of night." He found a couple of bottles of Nuka-Cola and held them up for Deacon to see. 

Gail's head nodded again. Deacon picked her up and headed for the stairs. "All right, I guess that's settled. Dinner? I notice we have the appealing combination of Instamash and Yum Yum Deviled Eggs." 

MacCready winced and smiled. "Sorry. I wasn't paying too much attention to what I was packing when I left Jamaica Plains." He was both glad and surprised that Deacon had given in so easily. He'd expected to find himself hauling an unconscious Gail through the night. He found a package of Dandy Boy apples and grabbed it, along with the opened Sugar Bombs and followed Deacon up the stairs. Tried not to stare too openly at the play of the muscles of his back as he carried Gail, or the way the worn denim of his jeans clung to his butt. Down, boy. He had an endless appetite for humiliating himself, that was nice to see. Deacon had made it plain over the last month that he wasn't interested and MacCready still couldn't seem to take the hint. 

"Don't apologize. I'm just sorry I can't create my culinary masterpiece _Cram a la Deaconaise_ for you. It's special, I use lightly-whipped mirelurk egg, razorgrain flour and just a pinch of glowing fungus. Really brings out the flavor." Deacon reached the top of the stairs and cocked one eye up at the hole in the roof and frowned. MacCready got his point, both mattresses were under the open sky. 

"Hah, you cook?" MacCready said. Didn't really fit his image of the spy. He grabbed one mattress and pulled it over to the sheltered corner of the room so Gail wouldn't get wet if it rained suddenly. 

"Babe, I cook, I clean, I'm the whole package." Deacon knelt and laid Gail down and pulled a battered blanket out of his pack to spread over her. 

MacCready laughed. "Uh-huh, yeah, right." Tried to suppress a twitch of irritation. Deacon kept saying _that_ and it was getting on his nerves. He got it, okay? It was a joke, a sarcastic riff on this pseudo-domestic situation that they'd found themselves in, two guys and a kid bumbling through the Wastes. He wasn't that stupid. But knowing still didn't stop the little...flutter somewhere in his midsection every time Deacon tossed it out. 

Gail's eyelids fluttered. "Kiss," she demanded. 

"Yes, my lady," Deacon said, and picked up her hand and kissed it. Then MacCready leaned over and kissed her forehead and she smiled. Turned over and burrowed into the blanket. 

Deacon sat back on his heels and looked up at him. "Well, babe, what should we do now?" he asked, and MacCready knew he didn't mean anything by it, but his brain couldn't help but supply a variety of answers. Most involving little to no clothing. He blamed Deacon's voice, which even at the worst of times was pretty darn sexy. 

"Um, dinner, I guess?" he said hastily and dropped his pack on the floor. Pulled out the mash, left the eggs. Ugh. He really hadn't been thinking when he packed. MacCready turned the box over in his hands. Most of these had dead batteries, but... He flicked the on switch and nearly dropped it when the package buzzed into life. The beaters vibrated and the heating element sparked. Well then. He set it down carefully on the desk so he could keep an eye on it. Then he took his sniper rifle and unloaded it and gave it a quick wipe-down. Re-loaded and set it next to the lookout chair. 

Deacon just sat and watched him for a minute...which was strange. And then pulled out Deliverer and cleaned it. Got up and paced around the room, once, twice until MacCready felt like yelling at him. They were all a little tense. Well, all of them except Gail, fast asleep and dreaming of Sugar Bombs...or of home. It was too early for him to feel sleepy, unless you weren't talking about _sleep._ This line of thought was not helping him remain cool and calm. In other words, his dick was getting interested. He shifted on the desk chair and grimaced when his inmost shirt pulled loose from where it had been stuck to his skin. 

Now that he was aware of it, he really needed to change clothes. His left arm was bare which felt all kinds of strange. His duster had already been missing a sleeve and then Deacon had cut the remaining sleeves off when he treated his wound. Pulled off his duster and his flannel shirt, which were both stiff with blood and some hardened thickened clear stuff that he suspected was raider brains. Ugh. Underneath he had on a long john tee, also blood-soaked and missing an arm, _thanks, Deacon. Couldn't wait to strip me._

MacCready grinned to himself as he thought that last, even as inaccurate as it was. He _wished._ Last was a soft short-sleeved tee, mostly intact except for a thick line of blood along one side. He started rummaging through his pack for clean shirts and couldn't find any. Shoot. Had he really forgotten any extras? He stared at the discarded clothing and wondered if he would have time to maybe rinse them out in the lake. Nah. They'd never dry in time and he doubted Mr. Paranoid would be okay with starting a fire. He'd just have to put them back on, as soiled and bloody as they were. Even though the night was warm, he still felt uncomfortably exposed. 

"Hey," Deacon said. MacCready jumped and nearly swore. Deacon was right behind him, the sneaky jerk. Sometimes MacCready suspected that he did stuff like that just to show off. Fair enough. If he, Mac, could walk like a shadow, he'd show off, too. 

"You're all over blood and dirt, MacCready. Hold still," Deacon said. Warm feeling of moisture on his skin. He craned his head over his shoulder and saw Deacon wiping off his back with a wet rag. He sure hoped it wasn't the same one that he'd wiped Gail's snot on. 

"Well, you're the one who shoved me into that bank," MacCready retorted, settling down on his knees. He liked the feeling of Deacon's hands on his body. The cloth smelled faintly like soap, and MacCready spared a minute to wonder where he'd gotten it. Deacon scrubbed harder over his shoulder blades and Mac relaxed, leaning back into the touch. 

"Oh, we're pretending this is all from the riverside? Okay then, sure," Deacon replied, chuckling. MacCready elbowed backward and Deacon dodged adroitly. Then he folded the cloth and started rubbing at the dried blood flaking off the skin of his ribs, down till he skated across the top of his hip and back up again. 

MacCready's mind went completely blank to all rational thought, and instead fixated on the pressure of the hand moving down his side and slowing, teasingly, at his hip, making him think for one heart-stopping moment that Deacon's hand might dip lower, inside the waistband of his jeans. And around to the front...and oh crud, he had to stop thinking like this. His arm didn't hurt now and he should take that cloth from Deacon and wash off on his own. But he didn't. He shifted around on his knees until he was facing Deacon, who scrubbed at his sides, then his chest, and the curve of his shoulders... He stared at him and Deacon lifted his head to look back. Mac caught the hand trailing across his collarbone and trapped it flat against his chest. He took a breath and wondered if Deacon could feel his heart pounding, if Deacon would lean forward, put his hand on the back of his neck and pull him close... 

The instamash dinged and MacCready jumped again. He licked his lips. "Uh. Thanks." He stood up to check on the mash. Had to lean against the desk for an instant to get his body under control. Crap, it was like being a teenager again, except twice as stupid because _he knew better_. He grabbed the least-stained tee and pulled it on. The mash was done, and past done. Like a few other things around here

MacCready pulled the top off, wincing when he burned his fingers. Then he split it between two bowls, opened the apples and added them. Turned around. Deacon was sitting on the lookout chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “I'm feeling very confused,” Deacon muttered, looking down at his hands. 

MacCready glanced around and decided that Deacon must be speaking to him. “About what?” He suddenly had a thought. “Wait, this place is safe, right?” He looked down at the lower story through the hole in the floor. “Does it have a basement?” It would be just his luck to have a pit full of feral ghouls literally at their feet. He set the bowls down and grabbed his rifle. 

Deacon sighed and shook his head. “No, no basement, MacCready." He stood and grabbed his arm until Mac relented and lowered the rifle. "Just—uh, relax, okay?” He picked up the bowls and took a taste of one. “Not bad.” 

MacCready watched him for a moment. Now _he_ was confused. He set the rifle against the wall and took a bite of the mash, blowing on his spoonful. It was warm and the apples made it acceptably sweet. He leaned against the wall and took two more bites, eating quickly, an old habit. 

Deacon handed him a bottle of water, his eyes flickering down to the previously-injured arm. "Sheesh, slow down, MacCready. You know you need to keep pushing fluids, right?" MacCready made a rude noise but opened it anyway and took a swig. Anything to keep that little line of worry from showing between Deacon's eyebrows. He washed the rest of the mash down with three huge swallows of water and burped. 

Deacon finished his portion and set it aside. His posture was oddly stiff and MacCready saw him swallow, the faint line of bruising at his throat moving as he did. "Hey, I forgot to mention. I, uh, picked up some extra stuff from those raiders. Shirts, I mean. Figured you'd want--" he waggled one hand, "you know, one or two or six. They're in my pack." 

Oh. He’d be glad to take off this blood-stained shirt. And.. that was unexpectedly nice of him. He found Deacon's pack and pulled out an assortment of tees and long sleeve shirts. _Now you're talking!_ He lifted one and caught a faint scent of soap. Deacon must have wrapped the shirts around it. He'd be glad not to smell like raider, for all that the ones back there had seemed a little better-looking than most. He pulled on a soft white tee with a gushing Nuka geyser. Neat. There was a long-sleeved denim shirt that had the Nuka-cola symbol printed all over it that he layered on top. Last, a red cloth jacket with a dancing Cappy on the chest and contrasting arms and striped cuffs. He held out one arm and admired them. _Too cool._ He looked up with a grin and caught Deacon staring at him. "Thanks, man." 

Deacon cleared his throat. "Don't mention it." He shifted restlessly on the chair, seeming uncomfortable; Mac wondered if he should offer him a stimpak. Then Deacon ran his hands over his head and frowned. "Hey, you got a razor? I cannot stand this--" vague gesture at his head, encompassing the hair and the reddish stubble on his jaw. 

MacCready snorted and motioned to his three-day...uh, maybe four-day stubble. "Do I look like shaving's a high priority?" He grabbed a handful of Sugar Bombs and munched on them. 

Deacon opened up a cola and took a sip, then handed it to MacCready. Spoke absently, eyes on the dark courtyard below. "Yeah, but it's sexy on you." 

MacCready nearly inhaled the swallow of Nuka in his mouth. "Uh, what?" 

Deacon didn't respond. He'd nearly decided that he'd misheard him when Deacon said, "The only thing uglier than a ginger is a curly ginger. It is truly my cross to bear." 

MacCready stared at him, caught mid-chew, trying to decide if he was joking or not. 

Deacon glanced up and said, "Now that's cute. Would make anyone's heart go pitter-patter." 

MacCready snapped his mouth shut and looked down with a grumble. "Yeah, yeah, funny." Remembered Deacon's smooth voice saying, _MacCready, you're totally fucking hot_ , and wished that he hadn't remembered. Because opinions changed. Obviously. 

MacCready took another swallow of cola when Deacon offered it and said, "I'll take first watch." 

Deacon looked over at him sharply, gaze sweeping up and down critically. MacCready suddenly felt every minute of the day and every mile of the road. Tried to stand up straighter. Deacon shook his head and said in a mildly complaining tone. "Dude, I hate getting up early. Do me a favor and let me go first. Because if you say no, I'll have to pull out my secret weapon: sudden death trivia." 

MacCready laughed but Deacon went on seriously, "Question one: what made up the Pre-war rat pack?" 

MacCready looked at him blankly, trying to figure out how they'd gotten on the subject of wildlife. "Uh, rats?" 

Deacon pursed his lips and gave a mock-sigh. "Ooh, so close. No, singers, or we would also have accepted 'Vegas entertainers'." 

"Pre-war people called singers rats?" Wow. Weird. 

Deacon pushed his shoulder playfully and then spread his hand flat and slid it down to Mac's elbow. He smiled. "Just the good ones." 

MacCready looked at him quizzically and pulled away. Walked over to his pack and pulled out his sleeping bag. Deacon picked up his rifle and sat down on the lookout chair like the discussion was over. So he was serious about taking first watch? Okay, not like MacCready couldn't use the sleep but still... MacCready dropped his sleeping bag on the mattress and then dragged the whole thing nearer Deacon. Well, closer to the weapons. This way, if Deacon started shooting at something, he could lend immediate support. If he needed it. Or...or anything else. Kicked it a few feet closer, until it was practically touching his chair. _Okay, MacCready, you're getting ridiculous._ He started to pull it back but then Deacon looked over from where he was sitting. MacCready braced for a snarky comment, but instead Deacon idly tilted back in the chair and said nothing. 

So MacCready left it where it was and lay down on top of his sleeping bag. Turned over so he could watch Deacon watching the night. Wondered if he would take off his sunglasses. Deacon picked up the night scope that Mac had given him and sighted through it and set it down again. Guess that answered that. 

Deacon leaned the chair forward with a thump, and then tilted back again. Picked up the scope and adjusted it, then reversed the adjustments. Pulled out Deliverer and almost dropped it. Just as MacCready was slowly coming to the conclusion that Deacon, unbelievably enough, was acting...nervous, Deacon spoke. 

"MacCready. Look. I got something to say."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter got really long. apparently I've fallen into the JK Rowlings trap and really love my characters camping in the Wastes....Don't hate me!


	13. You're my end and my beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I find myself in need of some random names, and I'm sick of making them up, also I suck at it. I got annoyed with myself when I realized my rough draft had the names Jean, Jim, and Julie all within a few lines. Gah. So I'm just gonna feed the commenter's usernames into a random picker-thing and use those, unless you comment to say NO. I need a couple of settler names for the next chapter and some bad guy names for Story 4--Shame on Me. Your user name will be modified, obv, for example, TinyFakeFanficRock --then I'd chop that to Tiny which sounds like an acceptable settler name or ironic bad guy name, hah.

Deacon kept his face turned out toward the night and didn't look around. MacCready wondered what was bugging him even as his mind immediately went _there_ and started clamoring loudly. No, no way, no way, that kind of confession thing happened in stories or radioshows, not real life. Probably he was upset about ...the delay or something. He was probably going to lay out how they would be travelling tomorrow, in that oh-so-casual, superior, I'm so far ahead of you voice that made everyone occasionally want to smack him. MacCready kept his voice even with an effort. "Sure, go ahead." 

Deacon took a breath, and it wasn't too deep or too fast or anything but a carefully controlled run-of-the-mill breath, but that alone meant something. MacCready's interest ticked up a notch and the clamoring in the back of his head got louder, yelling things like _get closer, grab him, kiss him!_

"When we went on that run to the Switchboard, and you handcuffed us to that freeway—" 

"You mean when _you_ handcuffed us to that freeway," MacCready interrupted. He felt simultaneously disappointed and relieved at the choice of conversational topic. Since when was he in the market for a relationship anyway? Why was he even thinking like this? Stupid, stupid, stupid. Something in his chest started squeezing tight, making it hard to breathe. 

Deacon looked irritated at the interruption. "Right, well it wasn't like I started it--" 

"And then _you_ dropped the key off the side and trapped us," MacCready interrupted again, feeling a perverse sense of satisfaction out of seeing Deacon even a little flustered. If he had to be nervous, they might as well both be. 

"All right, well--" Deacon looked over at MacCready suspiciously and MacCready stared back blandly. Deacon and his stupid classically-handsome face. The other man shifted on the chair again, and the t-shirt rode up enough to show a line of his fair skin between the hem and his waistband. MacCready had to drag his eyes away, even as part of his brain was arguing that there was nothing wrong with _looking_ , and if that was all he was getting, then there was nothing wrong with _enjoying_ it... Deacon and his stupid _body._

Deacon exhaled explosively and ran one hair over his short hair. "Okay, fine. It was my fault. And the way I behaved was, um, pretty terrible. I was out of line. I was so out of line, that I basically killed the line and ate its corpse." 

MacCready was taken aback by the statement and for a long moment, couldn't figure out what exactly Deacon meant. Okay, yeah, he'd been a jerk, but then again, they'd both been pretty pissed at each other and he, MacCready hadn't made things any easier with Blue, which was totally on his own head. Finally, he offered, "We were both out of line. I could have told Blue that you were trustworthy and I didn't, and then she wouldn't have insisted that I keep you out of the way...." he trailed off and waved one hand blankly. 

Deacon's face went cold and still and MacCready immediately realized that he'd messed something up but he had no idea what. Da-darn Deacon and his cryptic mysteriousness! He rubbed his right wrist unconsciously, where the handcuff bruises had been. Six weeks ago, but they'd long since healed. 

Deacon straightened up on the chair and smiled. And that made MacCready's heart stop all over again, because it was such a different smile than the way he'd smiled every other time today. He couldn't even figure out what made it different, it just was. Deacon said, "Good try, but no dice. Thanks for playing, though, Harvey, what prizes do we have for our guest today?" His voice might as well be a punch in the face, because it was different, too. 

MacCready was floundering and he hated that, hated when people didn't just say what they meant. It would be easy—and almost a relief—to get mad at Deacon, and end this puzzling conversation, but... Something was tickling at his awareness. He dealt with it the only way he knew how. "Hey," MacCready said sharply. "I don't know what you want me to say, Deacon. Don't be a di—jerk." 

MacCready glanced down and saw that Deacon's hands were clenched together tightly. So he wasn't quite as cool as he pretended. Deacon sighed and looked up at the crumbling ceiling and the night sky. It didn't look like he had turned back into cold, snarky, distant Deacon. Not yet. 

He finally spoke, the words tumbling out rapidly in a low monotone: "Well, if I have to pull my painfully bleeding issues out for us to poke at, then, okay, it wasn't as bad as lynching some dumbass settler in the wrong place at the wrong time and it wasn't as bad as screwing up so that everyone you care about dies horribly, but you should know that even if I was worthless scum in the past, I'm still anti-rape and taking advantage of people, and that was all kinds of wrong, and especially after the big damn heroic rescue for me and Gail and so I guess, I guess—I need...uh.." 

He paused for so long that MacCready started going back over his words mentally, trying to figure out what Deacon was waiting for. Of course, he was anti-rape, especially now, but what did that have to do with--? Taken advantage of who? Crap, he hated feeling like the dumb one. 

Then Deacon took a deep breath and said in a brisk, almost business-like tone, "What I'm trying to say is I'm really sorry. That that... happened. That way—I should have never...um done that. Okay?" 

Oh. Oh. Then it all fell into place, except now it was MacCready's turn to clench his hands into fists. Because it was painfully obvious that not only did Deacon never want anything more to do with him, now he actively regretted every encounter in their past and wished those had never happened. Sex with RJ MacCready was _wrong._ It was a mistake. Great. He was ashamed of him. Just what he wanted to hear—Deacon was on a program of redemption and MacCready was _step four_ —apologize for your skanky past sleeping with disreputable mercs. Couldn't help but wonder if Deacon was doing this because there was someone new in the picture. This also made it clear why Deacon had been avoiding him—avoiding this uncomfortable conversation. Not that anything Deacon did was any of his business. Anymore. 

He rolled over onto his back so he wouldn't have to look Deacon in the eye, and said, "Yeah. I understand and uh...it's okay." Gritted his teeth and finished formally, "I accept your apology." 

He could see Deacon cock his head quizzically in his peripheral vision. "You do?" he asked, sounding happier already. 

MacCready sighed. Just get it over with. "Yeah, sure, man. Never speak of it again and all that." He felt like adding, _I got the message when you ignored me for a month, you didn't have to go to this extent to make it clear we're over._

Deacon sounded like he laughed. MacCready took comfort in judging him for being so obviously relieved. Bad acting, Deacon. Very bad. It was like he wasn't even trying. "Well, now that's out of the way--" he started cheerfully and suddenly MacCready had just had enough. 

"Look, I'm really tired, mind if I sleep now?" He said and then threw himself over to his other side, away from Deacon without waiting for an answer. He'd never had anyone act like they regretted sleeping with him, which seriously hurt his pride, _thanks for that, Deacon._ Heck, at Little Lamplight, he had never lacked for partners or potential partners, including some that announced it by simply crawling into bed with him...although once Lucy got old enough, she put a stop to that, pretty quick. He thought back to that night at the overpass, which featured way larger in his interior fantasy life that he would care to reveal to anyone. Absolutely mind-blowing hot sex, followed by someone admitting that...they did sort-of like you? Maybe? And then that thing at Bunker Hill. 

Whatever. It didn't matter now. Just more proof that he and Deacon saw things completely differently and were totally incompatible. He was physically tired enough that even his emotional turmoil wasn't going to keep him awake. He just wished that there was a stimpak that would make his heart stop feeling like it was bleeding out...slowly. 

***

MacCready was in the midst of an unpleasant dream, of being turned away from Little Lamplight by Princess and then Hancock turning him away from Goodneighbor, Sanctuary's doors closed and locked, and last a familiar guard chasing him out of Diamond City, when the scene started to break up into fragments. He yanked his eyes open and woke up all at once, feeling strangely warm and comfortable. Nuka-World, marina, Gail....Deacon. 

"Whoa, you're suddenly so tense," Deacon said. MacCready abruptly realized that he was lying on his side, facing him and that Deacon was...holding his hand? And his other hand resting lightly on his head. He frowned out into the dark, and his fingers twitched and Deacon's hand squeezed around his. His other hand stroked through MacCready's hair and lightly traced the shell of his ear. It felt too intimate for someone that wanted to forget that he'd ever met him. "You seemed like you were having a bad dream, but I didn't want to wake you in a rush," Deacon said, lacing their fingers together. "Are you okay?" 

Part of MacCready wanted to lean into the touch but he stuffed that down and instead pulled away. "Typical crap, you know how it goes," he said brusquely. 

Deacon just looked at him and the lower part of his face seems worried but he didn't say anything. MacCready rolled over, and Deacon pulled his hand away from Mac's head. He didn't release Deacon's hand...yet...he would in another minute or two. He wondered what time it was. He felt very rested so he must have been asleep for hours. He had a pretty decent internal clock and right now it was reading closer to dawn than midnight. 

"Anything out there?" 

Deacon said quietly, "I saw some robots about an hour ago with a couple of raider-looking guys but they rolled right on past." He rolled his head around on his shoulders and sighed. 

"Why'd you let me sleep?" 

Deacon shrugged, still not looking at him, but his fingers tightened on MacCready's. "Figured I owed you that, at a minimum." 

"Oh." MacCready took a moment to casually disengage his hand from Deacon's and sat up to stretch. "Well, now it's your turn. Get some rest while you can." 

Deacon sighed and leaned back. "Believe me, from long experience, at this point, it'd be just like beating my head on a wall." Added darkly, "Like I'm not doing that enough already, jesus!" 

MacCready ignored his ramblings and sat down on the look-out chair, with Deacon still at his feet, leaned back against the wall. Deacon handed him a bottle of Nuka-Cola. Their fingers touched on the bottle and Deacon held on for an instant too long. "Breakfast of champions," was all he said, though. 

MacCready took a sip and for a while, they just sat in silence, looking out over the silver and black nightscape. The moon was low in the western sky and the silhouettes of the buildings and trees were faintly visible. It was very quiet, except for the gentle lap of the waves against the pier. And despite the peacefulness of the scene, MacCready was on edge. He recognized the feeling. He was _spoiling_ for a fight. He should take off, walk the perimeter or something and get away from Deacon. 

He didn't. Instead, he said, "Why didn't you meet me in Jamaica Plains?" 

Deacon took the bottle back and took a swig. "I got held up," he said neutrally. 

"I found your book. And your water bottle," Mac interrupted. Can't prevent the edge of anger that colored the words. 

"Wait, what?" Deacon said. "Run that by me again?" 

"I found that place in the church. And a ten-millimeter bullet and a spent mesmetron power cell. I'll never forget what those things look like, they show up in my nightmares." 

Deacon shook his head and muttered something that sounded like _Jesus, MacCready._ He went on, stumbling a little in his haste, "Why were you watching the settlement?" It stung the most that Deacon had been there, right _there_ and still hadn't talked to him, not as a lover, sure, okay, but not even as a _friend_ or an _ally._ Couldn't he at least ask Deacon to treat him like a friend? 

Deacon hesitated and looked away and MacCready clenched his jaw. A faint hope, that he hadn't even realized that he was harboring, withered and died. Deacon hadn't been there because of _him._ It sounded even more stupid put into words. _Oh you are so pathetic, MacCready. Stop pining after someone who does not want you._

Deacon rubbed his forehead again and then reached up and took his sunglasses off. Slipped them into a pocket. After seeing him with them all day, he looked almost undressed without them. "All right. Go on." 

"I found that power cell. Do you have any idea how I felt?" 

Deacon's head angled toward the night and the water. He opened his mouth and then bit his lip and stayed silent. His eyes looked tired, raw in a way that MacCready wasn't familiar with. 

"I guess we owe you for taking the time to look out for Gail, though," MacCready said nastily and Deacon actually winced. 

"Don't, MacCready, please," Deacon said, and the strain in his voice was back. MacCready wanted to be pleased to hear it but instead he was just...sad. "I just—you found a power cell and a water bottle and tracked us down. I don't believe you sometimes but I—" 

MacCready wasn't sure what Deacon meant, but he was ready to run with a 'making fun of MacCready' theory. Again. And some more. Probably getting ready to say something like, _I guess you learned all you know from Lad's Life, huh?_

"Let's just drop it," he snapped and concentrated on checking his rifle over, making sure it was ready to lift and shoot in an instant. His thigh and arm still ached but on the whole, he'd gotten off easily. It might take an extra day to heal up after exerting himself this much, but that didn't matter, because he'd saved him—them. Even if it felt like his stomach was full of lead and acid. 

"I don't want to drop it," Deacon said finally, and MacCready looked at him in surprise. "Because it's past time that I...I told you—everything, and that's what Blue wants, but it's just like, a lot. Especially for me. And I'm not sure, I mean, where to—" He stopped again, and MacCready frowned, unsettled by the change in subject. _What_ was what Blue wanted? 

Oh crap. Hot flush of embarrassment across his face and neck. So Blue _and_ Deacon had noticed his little crush and Blue had given orders. She probably didn't want unrequited feelings messing up workplace morale or some other Pre-war BS. He was slated to get _another_ talk. The one that started: 'I only like you as a...' What....Acquaintance? Occasional comrade? God, this sucked. 

Deacon interrupted his thoughts. He reached out and pulled his hand off his rifle and held it. “Robert. Listen. There was a reason that I was in Jamaica Plains, in that church. And why I was reading that book," he said. "That one in particular because I—" 

MacCready thought back to the way it had fallen open. When I'm in disgrace.. Look upon myself and curse my fate... “I looked at it," he said. 

“Yeah?" Deacon looked at him and his hand tightened. And MacCready just wanted this conversation to be done, done, done. To let him know that he understood, heck, he shouldn't even blame Deacon, it wasn't like the guy had ever held out any hope at all of having a relationship. He was being an immature jerk, being mad at Deacon for something that he had no control over, being mad like he thought Deacon owed him something... When he didn't. 

"It _sounded_ like someone who wanted something that they couldn't have," McCready said, the words infused with bitterness. "Because now it's too late and it's _over."_ Wanting more.... Even what you can’t have—the story of your life, Robert Joseph MacCready. It was inevitable that Deacon was going to move on and sooner rather than later. He was a fool for not seeing it earlier. He pulled his hand away from Deacon's with unnecessary force. Thought about Bunker Hill, about telling Deacon _next time, talk and other stuff._ If he'd known there wouldn't be a next time, he—he would've pulled Deacon into a room and kept him up all night and Danse could've fumed and stormed right outside the door. He would not have cared. Then he had to look up because one thing he sure as he-heck was not going to do was tear up. 

Deacon was dead silent and then abruptly put his hands over his eyes and took a deep breath. Didn't speak for a moment. "Fair enough. I guess I—that's that," he said, his voice as smooth as ever, and it made MacCready's stomach twist. After a minute, Deacon cleared his throat and put his sunglasses back on and just like that, he was the sexy, composed Railroad agent that MacCready had met—well, sort of met—in Diamond City. He stood up and took a couple of steps away, and stood with his back to MacCready, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. 

He thought back to holding Deacon in his arms on the floor of the ravine, of shoving frosting in his mouth. How had he gotten so messed up? It wasn't Deacon's fault that he was a self-sufficient spy that needed no one. Who saw relationships as a liability. Hadn't MacCready thought in the church that it wouldn't matter if he never saw him again, as long as he was alive? He was a fu-freaking hypocrite and he should be _ashamed_ of himself. 

The last of his anger slid away, leaving only weariness. "Hey, look. It’s almost dawn," he said instead, hoping Deacon read the implied white flag of truce. Deacon didn't stir for a long moment and then turned around. Not to look at the dawn. 

"I'm not very good at...talking or anything, really," he said, voice low. "And I haven't had any—uh, friends in a long time. But you—you're special, MacCready. I want you to know that. And if you ever need anything, I'm there, man. Okay? Remember that." 

MacCready tried to see the good in this 'oh sure we can be friends' breakup speech. It never worked; he'd seen time and time again with others. Despite that, he couldn't help the warm feeling that Deacon thought he was special. Deacon didn't say anything else and together, they watched the sun rise in silence. 

*** 

Gail opened her eyes approximately five minutes after the sun crested the horizon and bounced out of bed, talking to them both as soon as her feet hit the floor. Deacon was against starting a fire—of course he was—so there wasn't any reason to linger. They each took a deviled egg and packed up. MacCready discovered that his duster was damp and relatively clean. He held it up, wondering if he'd started sleep-washing stuff. 

Deacon paused where he was trying to coax open the old safe. "Figured you'd want that. I threw the shirts away, though." 

MacCready's fingers tightened on the cloth. "Oh. Uh. Thanks." He draped it over the outside of his pack to finish drying and resolutely did not think about it. When Deacon got the safe open, they split the ammo and the caps evenly. Friends. Being friendly. 

A couple of hours later, and they were finally nearing the outskirts of Jamaica Plains. Deacon had said almost nothing on the walk, but Gail had chattered enough for both of them. She wanted to give MacCready some mirelurk jerky and talk about how she and Deek had eaten it, but it was okay, it was good, sort of, wasn't it? He liked it, too, right? (He tried it, had to hide the grimace, smiled and told her it was wonderful. Then unobtrusively dropped it on the ground when she wasn't looking.) Then she wanted to ask him about Little Lamplight, because Deek told her about it and was that true, had he really been a Mayor? 

MacCready raised his eyebrows at Deacon, who shrugged. "Sorry, none of my life experiences were readily translatable into a kid's movie." 

Then Gail finally fell silent for a while and MacCready nudged Deacon. "You're awfully quiet." 

His sunglasses flashed as he looked up, and he shrugged. "I'm right as rain, my friend. Now. Thanks to you." 

MacCready felt an uncomfortable flush at the word. _Friend._ He and Deacon were... friends. Tried the words out in his mind and wished they didn't make his heart sink unhappily. They topped a low hill and Jamaica Plains came into view. Deacon stopped dead and stood for a long moment, head down. 

MacCready touched his elbow. "Hey, you okay?" Then he immediately thought, _Sheesh, MacCready, keep your hands to yourself._

Deacon bit his lip and looked over at him. "Yeah. I, uh, thought... Listen, about—one of the settlers told Gail to go out in the middle of the night." He gave a harsh laugh. "To meet you, of all things." 

MacCready's mouth dropped open. "To meet me? I wouldn't have told her that. " 

"I know. As soon as she said that, I knew something was up," Deacon took a deep breath. "I tried to bring her back but he hit me with that damn mesmetron and I—I—" 

MacCready frowned and squeezed his shoulder. "Hey, it's okay. It's not your fault. But who—you mean the slaver told Gail that?" 

Deacon shook his head. "That's the real crux. Better you hear it straight." He crouched down and Gail came over and leaned against him. "Gail, honey, tell Mac what you told me." 

She frowned and stuck a finger in her mouth. "He told me we were goin' on an adventure, Mac." Her face clouded over. 

MacCready knelt down and rubbed her hand between his. "I'm sorry, sweetie. But who did?" 

"Al-allen." 

MacCready kept his face calm with an effort, but he almost started in surprise. Allen? The settlement leader? He'd interacted with the man numerous times and he would have never guessed that he was capable of something like that.... Gail whimpered and hid her face in Deacon's neck. 

"It's all right, sweetie," Deacon told her. "But, honey, tell him the other thing." 

Her woeful little face turned away from Deacon's shoulder. "Oh yeah. He's not 'lergic to tarberries anymore. 'Member, Mac, we had tarberries and corn uh, yesterday and he didn't pick them out and give them to me, like he usually does. And I asked, and he said he's not allergic to tarberries but his face got all funny and scrunchy." 

That put a different spin on things. He wasn't an expert, but people didn't normally suddenly become not allergic to things. And hadn't someone mentioned that Allen had gone to Diamond City recently to do some trading? A recent absence, followed by strange behavior... MacCready frowned and looked up at Deacon. _Synth?_ he mouthed. 

Deacon nodded. Gail slid down to sit in the dirt between them and started drawing lines in it with her fingers. Kids, man, so resilient—stuff that he remembered shrugging off, now would give him nightmares. Still _did_ give him nightmares. 

"All right, Deacon. I guess this is your call then. What do we do?" MacCready asked him. 

Deacon stared at him again, at least, it looked like he was staring, MacCready could see himself in the reflective lenses. The silence stretched out and MacCready finally repeated, "Uh, Deacon? What do you want me to do? I'm assuming you aren't okay with me blowing him away, and uh, I respect that, so how do you want—" 

"Right, I get that," Deacon interrupted. "I just—you sure? I, I thought I'd have to argue with you—" 

MacCready felt a flicker of frustration; hid the vexation beneath an easy tone. Okay, right, he was a skanky merc, but Deacon didn't have to act so surprised every time he showed a shred of decency. "Sheesh, no. I mean, saving synths is only your whole, um, reason for existing, right?" 

"Right, lifelong vocation, so no biggie, like, at all." Deacon deadpanned, and MacCready was relieved to hear him sounding back in the neighborhood of normal. "Okay, so I'll talk to him, feel him out on the liberation issue. If he's willing, I'll get a runner to escort him to Goodneighbor where we can get the process started. If he's unwilling, then we deal with him." 

"You need any back up? Or you want us to wait here?" MacCready asked. 

Deacon stared at him again and shook his head. "God, no. I want you to get yourself and Gail behind those walls and turrets, like, now." He looked around, frowning and squinting. He pointed. "Okay, there, south-easterly. That should take you two around the edge of the swamp, far away from the damn Gunners and the swamp creatures and right to the Plains' doorstep. I'll go by the road north, get in position just outside the settlement and watch for you. Catch back up once I handle our friend." 

"By the road?" Mac hesitated. "There's raiders." 

Deacon smiled. "They'll never see me." 

MacCready gave up. No one could tell Deacon anything. He motioned to Gail. She sidled closer on his left side, where she wouldn't get in the way of his gun arm. Deacon watched them, looking worried. "Anything happens, anything at all, shoot first. If I hear your gun, I'll come running." 

MacCready grinned at him. "By the time _you_ get there, it'll for sure be dead." 

Deacon laughed. "Getting cocky, MacCready. All right, once you're in and drawing attention, I'll stroll through and grab Mr. Allen." He crouched down in front of Gail. "Take care of Mac for me," he told her and she nodded solemnly. 

MacCready wanted to laugh at them but Deacon looked up, afternoon sunlight blindingly bright on his glasses and Mac found the laughter dying in his throat. He scuffed a line in the dirt with his shoe. "So. I guess...I'll see you around then." 

Deacon stood up and looped his thumbs through the straps of his pack. "Yeah. I guess so." He hesitated and then said, "Hey, group hug!" Spread his arms, and moved forward, taking MacCready by surprise. Bent his knees enough to scoop up Gail and then MacCready was pulled against his chest, feeling Gail squirming and giggling against his side. 

He wasn't tall enough to meet Deacon's eyes (darn it) but that was okay because he didn't really want to. Instead, he ducked his head down where the vee of his shirt revealed the skin and the hollow at the base of his throat. Came very close to planting his lips there, despite yelling at himself for being stupid. He turned his head enough that his cheek was against Deacon's neck, skin to skin, and if that wasn't pathetic... It suddenly occurred to him that this might be the last time that he was this close to him. Deacon's arm tightened around him, making his breath catch in his throat, and blink hard. "Watch yourself, Deacon," he said gruffly. "Some shady characters out there." 

Deacon's breath ruffled his hair. "Awww. Shadier than you?" 

MacCready closed his eyes for a second and then forced them open. No sense putting it off. He pulled away and grabbed Gail's hand and straightened his cap. Deacon just watched him. He put his hand on his rifle where it would be easy to lift and fire quickly. "Well. Bye." 

"I don't do goodbyes. So just be careful," Deacon said quietly. "And— vayate rápido, mi amor." 

MacCready half-smiled. How exactly like Deacon to send them off with some half-intelligible gibberish. Probably a stupid Railroad countersign. "What the heck did that mean?" 

Deacon sighed and looked out over the horizon. "Beats me. Read it in a book." He swallowed hard. "But I thought it sounded...nice." 

They walked off, leaving him behind. MacCready twisted around to look but he stayed there unmoving, looking after them, until a scrubby tangle of trees cut him off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation: *Go quickly, my love. 
> 
> So my headcannon is that Deacon got his hands on a Spanish textbook and (of course) was absolutely fascinated by the idea of being able to say things in another language that no one else understood. He went on a campaign to get everyone in the Railroad to learn Spanish but that obviously failed and now he remembers a little and sprinkles in into his speech occasionally, mostly to annoy whoever he's talking to, but occasionally to say things that he wouldn't say in English...


	14. You're crazy and I'm out of my mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got so long that I thought about splitting it, but then I thought, nah, just get at least some of the miscommunicatin' resolved already. If everyone isn't out watching the Avengers, you can read! Huge love to everyone who has read and commented, words can't even describe how happy it makes me!!
> 
> As for names, a pal and I had fun writing them down and then picking out of a hat. Randomly picked charliechick117, and bettythetl. Picked two for Shame on Me (next story): TinyFakefanficRock and Shubba. Heee--have to admit, that was way more fun than looking in a baby book, :-))

By the time he and Gail made it to the settlement, MacCready was limping again. Even indomitable Gail was tired, trudging head down. MacCready kept his rifle up, it wouldn’t do to get Gail nearly home and then get attacked. Once they were past the turret ticking in the street, he lowered it thankfully. Almost there. He pulled Gail along and tried to coax more speed from his tired limbs. His pack felt like it was full of lead. He didn't see Deacon but he knew he was probably close, watching from an empty house or a roof. He'd had a quicker route than skirting the swamp, but had had to avoid supermutants, Gunners and raiders. MacCready suppressed a flicker of worry—as sneaky as Deacon thought he was, he wouldn't feel completely at ease until he saw him again. They trudged up the road toward the courtyard. There were a few people in sight. One female figure was stirring soup at the central hearth, and more were sitting around, by the garden and on the porch. As they walked closer, the cook suddenly straightened and dropped the ladle. 

“MacCready?” she called and put her hands over her mouth. "Gail?" All the others turned around and jumped up, excited babble rising. He didn't see Allen among them, which was a relief. Despite his words to Deacon, he never wanted to set eyes on the guy again, synth or not. The noise drew more people in. There was a muffled scream and Sonya came rushing out of the main building. Gail released MacCready and ran to her mother. 

Sonya sank down onto her knees and buried her face in the little girl's hair. MacCready was uncomfortably reminded of kneeling next to Deacon in the little valley and had to look away. The others crowded around MacCready, everyone talking, yelling questions all at once. On the edge of the clearing, MacCready saw Deacon’s familiar form grab another man by the arm and whisper in his ear. Then they both faded back toward the edges of the settlement. 

MacCready kept his eyes on them, ignoring the settlers talking to him, until Deacon paused in the yard of an abandoned house on the edge of town. He turned and looked back and even if MacCready couldn't see his eyes, he knew he was looking at him. He should wave or give him a thumbs-up or something, some casual gesture that would make it clear that he's totally okay with his _friend_ leaving... But he wasn't okay, he suddenly wasn't okay at all. His heart was pounding, his throat was tight and it felt like he _just_ got him _back_ — 

Before he knew it, he was shoving through the crowd of settlers until he reached the wall around the courtyard. Still staring at Deacon. _Don't go._ Deacon was across the street, just outside a dilapidated picket fence. 

Deacon opened the gate and took a step toward him. Then Allen appeared at his side, mouth moving, speaking urgently and his head drooped. Deacon straightened up and slipped around the corner of the house and out of Mac's sight. Gone. Why was it making him feel like he wanted to throw up? MacCready exhaled and turned around, pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes. Oh god, he knew why and he was officially the stupidest person in twenty-five miles. He was going _crazy._ Realized that the hum of conversation had died down to a murmur. 

"MacCready?" Tentative tug at his sleeve and he opened his eyes to see Sonya standing before him, Gail still in her arms. She glanced over his shoulder. "Who was that with Allen? If he helped you then I want to thank him." 

MacCready shook his head. "He's...he's no one, uh, important." Great, now Deacon had _him_ lying. And the jerk probably wouldn't even appreciate it. 

"It was Deek," Gail chirped. "Deek is Mac's friend and Deek helped me and Mac came to save us and he hugged Deek really big and then he fell over and Deek helped him and we had to walk—" 

"Yeah, that's enough, Gail," MacCready overrode her. "No one wants to hear all that, okay?" Did she even remember him telling her not to bother with the various details? No. No, she didn't because she was _seven._

Sonya looked at him, eyebrows raised. He shrugged, tried to convey indifference. "He's a, a friend of the General's. I know him, I mean, not well, but—anyway, luckily he was around, he helped protect Gail and he's smart and really brave, I don't think I could've kept it together so well and—" Shut up, shut up, shut up, MacCready! He snapped his mouth closed on more completely insane ramblings and managed a weak smile at Sonya. 

She smiled and patted his arm. "He sounds like someone special." 

He sucked at lying and he wondered why he was even trying—was he trying to keep it from Sonya or avoid admitting it to himself? That was just...stupid. He exhaled gustily and thought, _Fu-frick it._ Nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, he is. In fact, I think I love him." 

Her smile widened. "That's great!" Then she frowned at his expression. "Oh you haven't—well, you should tell him, Mac." 

MacCready shrugged and looked down. "Believe me, I think he already knows." And doesn't care, he didn't bother adding. After all, he'd been so eager to claim MacCready as a _friend._ Jerk. 

"Mac, listen to me," Sonya's voice was stern, with what he'd heard others call a mothering tone, but in his head it always translated to a _Lucy_ tone. Pang of grief for her, one that will never go away. "I can't ever thank you enough for what you've done," and she squeezed Gail until the little girl squeaked out a breathless giggle, "But let me give you some advice. Thinking's not enough. It never is. Tell him." 

Then some of the others were approaching, hands on his arms, and pulling him away from Sonya. Calling for a toast, opening bottles of beer and whiskey and pulling him into their circle of smiling faces. And the face that wasn't there kept him sober and quiet, even when he tried to smile and aw shucks his way out of it. He didn't think they noticed his quiet, not really. 

The 'Wealth was desperately in need of a few happy endings, and this one practically wrote itself, no Piper required: hero saves child, comes back to grateful town. All that was missing was the kiss from the love interest... The story was both bigger and smaller than the reality. Broad, epic strokes, but simpler. Easier to understand. The real truth: average merc with more than a few cold-blooded kills to his name tracks down child and ...former lover and together, they all save each other, and then return to hopefully redeem the murdering synth who'd started the whole thing.... 

Nah, that would never sell. No one wanted to hear shi-stuff like that. So MacCready kept quiet and let them fill in the lines, complimented the liquor and tried not to see Sonya watching him. Even toasted her, once, on the fourth (fifth?) drink. Ignored a couple of the handsier ones. And then stumbled off to his guest cottage and fell onto the bed. Drunk enough that he doesn't even think about the person that's not there and able to fall asleep without lying awake wondering, wishing. 

He had a rotten headache the next day but his leg had finally stopped aching and the red line on his arm faded to white. No other changes, either in him or Jamaica Plains. But if an adult or two happened to be near the children at all times... Well. As Allen would've said, that was settlement business. A few murmurs over his absence, but no one was inclined to question him going off with the General's friend. 

Blue was Blue, she did things for her own strange reasons and the settlers that had gotten to know her were as occasionally discomfited by her as her own friends were. Everyone knew she was two-hundred years old, but you had to interact with her before it really hit home. Some of the things she said and did were just... weird. 

MacCready remembered one memorable time when they took out a super mutant suicider and she said, holding one clenched fist up to her mouth, "Holding. Offense. Ten-yard penalty," and waved her arms around. She'd laughed and turned to him and he had just stared at her, wondering what that meant. Then she laughed harder, but some of it...hadn't sounded like laughter at all. 

By late afternoon, he had washed himself and his clothes, and half-packed. Put on the stupid Nuka shirts that Deacon had given him and was standing on the edge of Jamaica Plains, staring out over the scrubby swamplands. This was ridiculous. He didn't know why he was still here. Deacon would probably be tied up with synth stuff for a while and he—he needed to get back to Sanctuary. He was over-thinking, Deacon hadn't meant to wait here until he got back. And this felt like too many other times when MacCready thought he would see him, only to be disappointed. He wheeled around and headed back toward his—no, the guest shack. It wasn't his. Nothing here was _his._ The thought wrung his heart. He was getting too comfortable. It was a warning. Time to go. 

But when he came around the corner of the weathered main building, he saw Deacon sitting on the bench next to his shack. He was dressed like a drifter in a ratty plaid button-down shirt and rough canvas trousers. A backwards baseball cap was the crowning touch. And the lift in his mood when he saw him was ridiculous, so much so that for a long instant, Deacon was all he could see. Then he blinked and realized that Sonya was sitting next to him and Gail was hanging on his knee. 

He walked up to them and heard Gail telling her mom, "Lurk jerk is icky but that's a secret. We can't tell Mac 'cuz he loves it. It was maybe all he had to eat in the cave?" She cocked her head at Deacon, who nodded. 

"Hey, wait a minute, telling stories about me?" MacCready demanded and Deacon gave an exaggerated start. 

"Oh no, he's got you now, Gail, run!" Gail jumped up but before she could do anything, MacCready scooped her up and tickled her and she dissolved into laughter, kicking and thrashing. One foot came close to knocking off Deacon's hat and he ducked. "Those feet are a deadly weapon." 

Her giggles died down and she squirmed to get loose. He let her down and she crawled up on the bench between Deacon and Sonya. Her face was scrubbed pink, and she had on a clean yellow shirt with a faded rainbow on the front, and her hair was neatly tied off in pigtails. No sign of the dirty ragamuffin from before, with a snotty nose and tangled hair. 

Deacon leaned back and looked up at him, sunlight catching the golden-reddish stubble on his jawline. "Hey, MacCready. You look like you got a shave and a haircut." He rubbed the fabric of the red jacket between his fingers. "This is way too nice to be yours, who'd you steal it from?" 

MacCready grinned back. "Ah, some jerk had it in his pack, but he didn't deserve it." Deacon smiled and put one hand on his hip, where it slotted into place like it belonged there, and making MacCready feel unexpectedly warm. 

Sonya made a coughing noise and stood up, taking Gail's hand. "Well, look at the time. We should go. Thank you again," she said to Deacon. "It was so nice to meet you." Then she turned to MacCready and smiled. Raised her eyebrows and tilted her head toward Deacon. 

MacCready went still—she wasn't? She nodded again, this time more emphatically. Oh, yes, she was. He groaned internally. What had possessed him to say that? It had to have been the stress of a near-death experience because the last thing that he needed was some matchmaker trying to get him and Deacon together. Plus, if ...when Deacon figured out what was going on.... Ugh. He tried a tiny shake of his head and a frown, hopefully over Deacon's head so he wouldn't see. 

Sonya's lips curled up and her eyes twinkled. _Tell him,_ she mouthed. 

"Right, well, nice talking to you, Sonya, shouldn't you go do the thing now?" MacCready said hurriedly. 

"What thing?" Gail said, perking up, her green eyes shining. Just like her mother. "I wanna go do the thing." 

At that moment, Jason and baby Maria came trotting around the watch station on the other side of the guest cottage, saw Gail and made a beeline toward them. Following close behind was Charlie, one of the younger adults, looking vaguely disgruntled. Must be on kid duty. 

Jason came running up and latched on to MacCready's leg. If he was back in Little Lamplight, he'd name this kid Sticky the Second, he was so clingy. He looked up at Mac and said, "Where's my car!" 

MacCready showed him empty palms. "I don't have it, Jason. Did you lose it?" 

Jason frowned. "Where's my car!" he repeated stubbornly. Sonya motioned to Gail and she took Maria's hand obediently, and then looked at MacCready and scowled. Hah. It was tough bein' the big kid, kid. 

Charlie caught up to them and said, "Sorry, sorry, his car's around here somewhere. We're looking." Jason released him and sat down in the dirt with a thump. Charlie started to pull him up and then he did a double-take and stared at Deacon. 

Oh right. Everyone was a little sensitive about strangers right now. MacCready gestured to him and said, "Charlie, this is my friend, Deacon. Oh, and the General's friend, too," he added, as an afterthought. 

He let his hand rest lightly— _casually_ —on Deacon's shoulder, as the other smiled guilelessly. "Hola." 

Charlie looked at Deacon, slow dawning of recognition in his eyes. "MacCready's ...friend," he echoed and then grinned. "Yeah, right, I remember hearing about you now! It's nice to finally meet you. How long are you and Mac staying?" 

MacCready looked at him in bewilderment. Why...the strange pause and what did he remember and why would he assume that Deacon was.... Wait a minute. He turned and gave Sonya a glare. She shrugged and looked away, which might as well be a signed confession of guilt. MacCready's pulse picked up a notch and he wondered if he could head Charlie off before he said anything else. 

Yeah, nothing doing. Charlie didn't even pause for breath but went right on: "I heard from Sonya that you helped out in the big rescue! Man, Mr. Deacon, that was nothing short of amazing." Gave Deacon a good-humored smack on his shoulder and MacCready winced. This was...not good. 

Deacon pushed his sunglasses up on his nose and leaned back, casually crossing one ankle over the other. He also slid over on the bench, away from Charlie and closer to MacCready. Out of Charlie's reach, MacCready noticed, and then he moved his hand from MacCready's hip to the small of his back. And Deacon's shoulders looked relaxed, but MacCready could feel the tension under his fingers. The increasing tension. MacCready wanted to rub his shoulders, smooth the frayed plaid fabric—and the muscles underneath—until the relaxation was real and not a pose. He hesitated, debating with himself and settled for squeezing Deacon's shoulder gently. A _friendly_ squeeze. 

"Well, I'm just a millionaire playboy with a heart of gold," Deacon replied easily. "Nothing gets me madder than injustice." MacCready almost winced again. Lies weren't a good sign. Squeezed Deacon's shoulder again, a little harder, trying vainly to convey that he was safe here. Uh-uh. Mr. Paranoid was off and running. "After my parents were murdered in front of me by raiders, I feel like it's my personal calling to fight crime in the 'Wealth as a secret vigilante." 

Charlie's eyes widened, but he soldiered on gamely. Instead of _shutting up_ , MacCready thought with irritation. "Well, that's great. You should know that any, uh, friend or _whatever_ of Mac's is a friend of ours. We toasted the heck out of him last night, but now that you're here, we've got another reason to celebrate. The two of you should come to dinner and we'll do it proper." He looked back and forth to each of them, as hopefully as a puppy, and MacCready was torn between exasperation and despair. Oh, man, this looked... It sounded like... 

Sonya looked up from where she was kneeling on the ground next to Gail and little Maria. She nudged Charlie's leg and said, eyes sparkling, "Charlie, you're putting them on the spot. Deacon just got here. They might have other plans for tonight." The knowing tone of her voice made 'other plans' sound as dirty as a sex show. MacCready felt his face flushing red and dropped his hand off Deacon's shoulder. 

Deacon frowned and cocked his head at MacCready. Mac said hastily, "Well, I mean, I can't speak for Deacon, we're not, uh." He had to stop and take a breath before finishing, "Uh, what are we, I mean, you, what are you doing tonight?" 

Deacon started to smile and his arm tightened around MacCready's waist, tugging him a step closer. Deacon said, "I don't know, MacCready, what are we doing?" MacCready frowned down at him. _Really, Deacon?_ He should know better than to encourage these people. Also, the late afternoon sunlight was shining right on them and making him break out in a sweat. He glanced at Deacon, who as usual, looked perfectly cool and composed, faint smirky smile on his lips. Oh, it was all a big joke to him. His _friend,_ the _jerk._

Another female voice interrupted them. Not Lana, he saw with relief. Betty came down the steps from the central courtyard and said, "Charlie, Sonya, who's this?" She was carrying a book, with her finger stuck between the pages to hold her place. She sat down on the bench on the other side of Deacon and smiled at him. "Hello?" 

Deacon smiled cheerfully. "Hola, senora. Whatcha reading?" 

She glanced down at it and turned it so he could see the cover. Gone with the...wind? The fancy curly writing made it hard to read. Stupid title, MacCready thought in irritation. "Dunno. Friend told me it was a romance, but I haven't gotten to the good parts yet." 

"The eternal search for the 'good parts'," Deacon answered. "I know it well." 

She laughed and carefully slid a torn bit of paper into the book to mark her place. "I'm Betty. You're new around here." Charlie shifted back and forth on his feet, looking bored and Maria climbed into Sonya's lap. 

Deacon said, "Look at that. Can't get anything past you. Pretty _and_ smart." 

MacCready thought that if their smiles got any bigger, they'd meet at the back of their skulls and the tops of their heads would fall off. He slid one hand down Deacon's back and said, "Hi, Betty. You know, that old church is a great place to read, if you're looking for peace and quiet." 

Deacon made a sudden choked laughing noise and looked up at him. "Is that so, MacCready?" he asked softly. 

Charlie cleared his throat and said, "Betty, this is _Deacon._ " When she looked confused, he nodded significantly and tipped his head toward MacCready. She looked at them, and MacCready was suddenly aware that he was standing next to Deacon, with a hand on his back. Deacon, though still sitting, had looped one arm around his waist and they looked...um.. Okay, this was all Deacon's fault. Somehow. He, MacCready, was just being _friendly._ He had suddenly had enough of this awkward conversation. Raider attack. Now. Their surroundings stayed obstinately quiet, bright afternoon sunshine and the fragrant smell of mutfruit flowers from the garden. _Raider attack._ Now. _Darn_ it. 

"Oh. Oh!" Betty exclaimed, comprehension breaking over her face. "You're the Deacon that helped Mac, right! We're all glad you're back! We should get Jay to cook something special for dinner!" She smiled and leaned forward to pat Deacon's knee, which made MacCready want to snap at her to keep her hands to herself. Deacon didn't like people touching him, ever, with all those suspicions and spy stuff swirling around in his brain. 

Sonya looked like she was laughing under her breath, Betty was staring at Deacon like she wanted to memorize his face, and Charlie loomed over them all, leaning forward like he wanted to clap Deacon on the shoulder or shake his hand, in a friendly macho way. MacCready felt surrounded and he couldn't imagine what was going through Deacon's mind. He should probably give him some space, he thought reluctantly. He started to step away but Deacon's hand looped through his belt and held him tightly. 

"Uh, sure, dinner, uh," Deacon said. "I do like dinner, but I've got a new batarang to test, and the bat-cave needs cleaned and there's evil villains to foil. I'm like, swamped." His expression and sunglasses didn't show much but MacCready was getting a worrisome vibe. MacCready wondered how quickly Deacon could grab a Stealth boy and disappear. Probably five seconds or so. One-mississippi, two-mississippi.... He rubbed the back of Deacon's neck gently and felt him relax a little. 

Charlie spoke over Deacon's head to Betty, "We should give him a tour, and introduce him around." 

Mac felt Deacon's shoulders tense again under his fingers. "I don't think—" 

Betty nodded eagerly. "Sure, I could—" She looked down sharply and rubbed her ankle as Sonya straightened up and put her fist back into her lap. "Ouch!" She laughed, and it sounded forced. "Of course. Mac can do that." 

Deacon stood up and stepped away from the bench, tugging MacCready with him and making their hips bump together. "Yeah. That sounds great. MacCready can give me a tour," Deacon said. 

MacCready closed his mouth. He'd been about to politely decline, because he knew darn well that Deacon did not want a tour. He half-turned to look at him, trying to see behind the sunglasses. 

"Yep, I'd sure love a tour. Can't wait," Deacon said. "MacCready, why don't you start by showing me your place." 

"The—the guest shack?" MacCready asked, and Deacon set his teeth together with a click that only MacCready was close enough to hear. 

"Your guest shack," he emphasized. MacCready caught a smug look on Sonya's face. 

"Oh. Okay, sure." He walked with Deacon over to the door and opened it. "See? Not much to see, and just one room—" 

Deacon stepped inside, yanked Mac over the threshold and slammed the door behind them. MacCready felt a tingle of anticipation as he stared at him, wondering what he would do next, but Deacon released him and turned away, standing in the middle of the room. 

MacCready leaned back against the door and looked at him, arms folded. He could hear laughter and indistinct conversation outside that gradually faded as the others left. Sonya and the kids first, and then Betty, and last of all, Charlie, taking off in the opposite direction from everyone else. Huh. Shoving off the child minding onto the others. He _should_ get in trouble for that. Not—not that it was any of MacCready's business, god, no, it was just.... He'd always kept the work roster fair when _he_ was Mayor. 

When everything was as quiet as it ever got, MacCready said, "You don't want a tour." 

Deacon didn't respond right away, instead plopping down into the chair next to the bed. "Does everyone in this godforsaken settlement know my name?" 

MacCready shrugged. "There might be a couple that don't." Deacon leaned forward and braced his forearms on his knees. His knuckles were white where his hands were knotted together. MacCready frowned. "Hey, calm down. You helped rescue Gail—of course they're curious. But this is a Minuteman settlement, they're safe." 

He moved closer and sat down on the bed. "How'd things go with Allen?" The synth known as Allen, he thought with a twinge of anger. The real Allen was dead, of course. 

Deacon didn't meet his eyes. "Fine. Okay, I guess. He was glad we didn't shoot him. And Hancock says hi." No wonder he seemed on edge, if he'd walked to Goodneighbor and back since yesterday. MacCready was glad to hear that synth-Allen wouldn't be around much longer. They'd wipe his memories, give him some fake ones and get him out of the Commonwealth. For all the Railroad said they were rescuing synths, that struck MacCready as a pretty decent punishment. He shouldn't get to keep his stolen life. 

Deacon interrupted his thoughts. "We should—should get going, if we leave now, we can get back to Sanctuary by morning." 

MacCready was happy enough to hear the 'we', that he wouldn't even complain about Deacon's weird fetish about travelling at night. They'd spend a hair-raising journey jumping at every sound and waiting to get ambushed, and then arrive at their destination dirty, exhausted and in a bad mood. He shrugged mentally. But the company would be good. The best. 

"How about we spend the night here and get started in the morning?" he replied, not really expecting Deacon to agree. He was already mentally packing the remainder of his stuff. At least he wouldn't have to travel alone, he hated that. 

Deacon didn't answer, just sat quietly, head angled like he was watching MacCready—not that he could tell for sure. He took a deep breath in, then out. No response. 

"Deacon, hey, hello?" The silence dragged out for a couple of beats. "Is something wrong?" 

Deacon started to speak, stopped and then rubbed his eyes under his sunglasses. Another slow, deep breath in. "I—just, I feel a little overwhelmed." His voice sounded strained and tired, and MacCready could see the muscles of his arms trembling. 

MacCready had the impression that he was holding on to his control by the skin of his teeth. It had been a pretty rough week for all of them, but Deacon had had it the worst. And then to get mobbed by curious settlers—his spy instincts were probably going crazy. MacCready knelt down next to him and rubbed his back. 

"Hey, it's okay, Deacon. It's fine. No one knows you're with the Railroad. All this will blow over in a few days." He'd done this kind of thing lots at Little Lamplight when kids had nightmares or a sudden random freak-out. He spoke the soft reassurances almost on autopilot. 

Deacon dropped his head, braced his forearms on his thighs and took a deep breath. "They know me, MacCready. They—they'll remember me." 

"They'll forget all about you. It's okay, Deacon. All they know is a guy named Deacon hangs around with Blue. Nothing important." After another minute or so Deacon's hands unclenched and he was breathing easier. 

MacCready kept rubbing Deacon's back, and felt the ballistic weave plus the padding under what appeared to be a plain ragged flannel shirt and half-smiled fondly. _Paranoid idiot. He shouldn't push himself so hard._ He wondered if he should go make excuses for dinner; he was pretty sure Deacon didn’t want to be surrounded by settlers again. Ever. Although after today, probably half the settlement thought they were screwing and if they didn't show up for dinner, the other half would be convinced too. He sighed and considered strategies. Trying to put the rumor cat back in the bag was pretty impossible. Even if he went out and denied it—which he honestly doubted that he could convincingly—it would just add fuel to the fire. 

And then he thought: _Why bother? Why not...roll with it?_ Uh…again. Some more. Deacon had said they were friends, after all, and occasionally friends had sex. He, MacCready had had sex with several of his friends, granted they were all at Little Lamplight or Big Town but still. Preston and Sturges were definitely foolin' around once in a while, but he didn't think it was serious. Just a little...stress relief. He could use some stress relief. The more he thought about the idea, the more he liked it. 

Okay, obvious downside was the fact that he was literally feeding his own heart straight into a fu-fricking toaster. Because if it was hard saying goodbye yesterday, then it would just get harder every time they got...close. He was willing to take that chance right now. He might be cursing himself for a crazy jerk in the morning, though. Eh. He'd think about it… _later._

Unacknowledged was the thought was the thought that they might... click so well. That he doesn't have to. Think. Or say...whatever. Which, by thinking now, he was freakin' jinxing it, so stop it, MacCready! 

He was much better at action than thinking. He'd still been murmuring reassurances, even while thoughts raced through his mind and now he took stock. Kneeling in front of Deacon's chair, one hand on his back. He dropped his other hand to his knee. Moved forward, slowly, like an afterthought, until he was between Deacon's thighs. Then he tightened the arm on his back and Deacon responded easily as anything, leaned forward, slid one hand around MacCready's waist and rested his forehead on MacCready's shoulder. MacCready patted his back. "Feeling better?" 

Deacon turned his head where it was resting on his shoulder, and said, "Yeah. Thanks, MacCready." His eyelashes brushed the skin of MacCready's neck. The sensation brought a stab of _want_ that made his groin tighten. 

He took Deacon's cap off and ran his fingers through his short hair. "You didn't shave yet," he murmured. 

Deacon shook his head. "I didn't have time, although I did manage to frighten Doc Amari with it. Told you. Gingers are the stuff of nightmares." 

MacCready let his other hand slide idly up Deacon's thigh, as if he weren't even thinking about it, until it reached his hip. The muscles tensed under his fingers and he grinned to himself. He slid his other hand down Deacon's back and casually tugged at his shirt until it came untucked, and then lower until he could touch the smooth skin of Deacon's back. And dug his fingers into Deacon's thigh with a massaging motion. Squeeze and release, the pressure from his strong sniper's hand firm and rhythmic. 

Deacon shifted but didn't pull away or move his head from MacCready's shoulder. He was still close enough that MacCready could feel the movement when he licked his lips. Moved his massaging hand a bit higher and Deacon's hand closed around his wrist. "MacCready, what are you doing?" he whispered. 

He angled his head down and licked the side of Deacon's neck. He smelled like soap, the same soap that he'd used on MacCready, that was on the shirts that he'd given him, and he smelled delicious. "What do you think I'm doing?" he said, deliberately letting his breath ghost over the damp skin. 

Deacon reached out and hooked his fingers into either side of MacCready's belt loops and tugged his hips closer toward the junction of his thighs. "Well, I want to say, 'Mrs. Robinson, you're trying to seduce me' but that might be a little confusing. I'll have to sacrifice historical precision for clarity and say, MacCready, I think you're trying to seduce me. Trying and succeeding, I might add." 

MacCready chuckled and slid one hand underneath Deacon's shirt. "Sheesh, you sure talk pretty." 

“So I’m pleased but a little confused, MacCready,” Deacon went on. “You know, uh, you know you don’t have to have sex with me…or anyone, right? Unless you really want to. That time on the overpass—” 

“Who’s seducing who, here?” MacCready said with some irritation. "I mean, I thought I was but you're doin' all the talking.” 

"There’s that cocky attitude that I—I like," Deacon said, with a huff of laughter. “But I want to know that you're okay with this before I do anything…" 

MacCready was annoyed, horny and impatient—none of which were very conducive to serious thought. Why is Deacon going on and on about that, he wondered. It's almost like— 

Sudden starburst of comprehension lighting up his head. He pulled away from Deacon so that he could look into his eyes. "When you were talking about the overpass yesterday, you were apologizing for—uh, holding me down and all that. After I told you not to." 

"Yeah, I know," Deacon answered, eyebrows raised. He frowned. "Wait, what did you think I was talking about?" 

Sudden relief. He knew it was all over his face, as well. Deacon took one look and said, "MacCready, come on. How many times do we need to go over this? You thought I was saying I didn't want you?" He slid off the chair and grabbed MacCready's shoulders. Pushed and half-lifted him onto the bed. MacCready smacked down onto the mattress with a thud and Deacon crawled over next to him. "Are you paying attention _at all?_ Don't answer that." 

"You—you weren't exactly clear, Deacon," MacCready retorted. 

Deacon made a frustrated noise. "You know, in my defense 'Hey, I'm sorry I sorta raped you,' is a pretty difficult thing to say!" 

MacCready stared back at him and just... Was that why he'd been avoiding him? Okay, they should probably have a discussion about blurring the lines between hot sex that was okay, and hot sex that was Not Okay—he had to clench his jaw to keep from smiling, recognizing that he felt....happy, relieved, turned on, a whole confusing mix of emotions that were rising in his chest like fizzy bubbles. 

Deacon's eyes were as sharp as ever, even behind sunglasses in a dimly-lit shack. His shoulders relaxed all at once. "Oh, you asshole," he drawled. "I can't believe this, it really didn't bother you at all, did it?" 

MacCready touched his chest, and said humbly, "It's okay, Deacon. I have some ideas about how you can make it up to me—" 

Deacon yanked him upright and pulled the red jacket off. "Shut up, jerk. I was worried, okay?" 

MacCready shook his head, laughing and fell back down onto the bed. "You know, I would have thought the whole screaming your name while I came my brains out might—just _might_ have given that away." 

Deacon propped his head up on one hand and then looked at him thoughtfully. "You didn't yell my name when you came. You've never even said it." 

Then he reached over and started toying with the buttons of his shirt. MacCready's heart skipped a beat. "I—you sure?" 

Deacon flattened his hand on Mac's chest and rubbed, lingeringly. "Not once. And I'm so very sure." 

The feel of Deacon’s hands on his body sent a flush of warmth over him. Enough talking. MacCready started unbuttoning Deacon’s plaid shirt. “Then I guess that's something to aim for. Since we're skipping the tour and all." 

Deacon leaned over and began to kiss the side of Mac's neck, gently, mouthing at the skin, nibbling lightly. “Shoot, well, if we have to... Practice makes perfect."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Graduate was a popular book before it was a movie and hence, Deacon could conceivably have read it. Thanks for reading!! (Obviously not everything is resolved, but they are on the way!)


	15. Love your curves and all your edges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that the tags have been updated. 
> 
> Sooo when you get a new (better) position and your boss says (like an afterthought, haha, not at all like a planned ambush) say, can you keep doing your old job, on top of the new one? Just until we get someone new hired....and trained. No more than a few months, promise, hahahaha. Run. Say no.  
>  I didn't. I am paying, which is why this chapter is a little late.

MacCready's breath hitched at the feel of Deacon’s lips on his skin and he chuckled ruefully. "Oh, crap, the last set took two weeks to heal up, Deacon." He couldn’t suppress a shiver at the memory. He’d check to see if they—the assorted hickeys and bites—were gone every day or two, looking in whatever reflective surface he could find. Then carefully rewinding his scarf around his neck to cover them all. He didn’t think anyone but Blue had even noticed and she had just rolled her eyes. Clutching the reminder of what had happened close, like a talisman written on his skin. That it hadn't been a dream or a fantasy. He finished unbuttoning Deacon’s shirt and slid it down his shoulders. Deacon shrugged it off and dropped it on the floor next to the bed. 

MacCready let his fingers trail over the lighter skin of Deacon's shoulders and the warm tan-line across his collarbone. Deacon straightened and lay down next to MacCready again. Leaned over and let his lips trace the outline of his ear before sucking lightly at the curve of his jaw. MacCready's pants felt pleasantly tight, a tingle of anticipation sweeping over him. 

"Yeah, I had to wear a ushanka hat for a week," Deacon muttered, lips moving against Mac's skin. "Dez thought I'd had a botched face change. Tinker Tom thought the aliens got me and Carrington demanded that I show him my injuries." He started undoing the buttons of Mac’s shirt. “Bastard laughed himself sick when I finally showed him and blackmailed me into dealing with Stockton for a month.” 

MacCready laughed and Deacon brushed his hair back from his forehead. “Don't worry, no biting," Deacon said softly. "Not this time." Deacon shifted around and set something on the table next to the bed. MacCready was startled to see that it was his sunglasses. 

Deacon pulled his denim shirt open, revealing the thin Cappy tee that MacCready was wearing under it. Paused, staring down at him for a long moment. MacCready immediately felt self-conscious, lesser without his layers. Scrawny, skinny and more were all terms he’d heard applied to himself in the past, even affectionately from people that he knew liked him, so they were probably being realistic. 

He’d never been the Grognak type, even as a kid, which was part of the reason he’d picked up a rifle. Needed a skill that wasn’t dependent on physical strength. Deacon caressed his chest, then leaned over to press a long lingering something…uh, it felt like a kiss.. under his ear. For an instant, MacCready thought that he must be mistaken, but no, he wasn’t. It was—tender. Intimate. His heart started pounding. 

"What are you doing," MacCready breathed. Half-expecting Deacon to pull away and laugh at him for being taken in by the joke. "Uh, no kissing, Deacon? Remember?" 

But Deacon didn’t answer, instead just toyed with his earlobe, taking it teasingly between his teeth and then licking and nuzzling the sensitive spot under the curve of his jaw. MacCready wasn't sure what to think but the combination of desire and uncertainty lit a fire in his blood. And his hands were clenching in the blankets and he was biting his lips to keep from moaning. After this, well, there was no way he wouldn’t be yelling Deacon’s name. Not that he knew his real name, but—well, Deacon would have to do. 

Then Deacon kissed—yes, kissed along his collarbone until he reached the hollow of his throat. There was no way that MacCready was mistaking it. Kissing, why, why, why? The thought spun around his head until he felt dizzy, hardly daring to finish the thought. He knew what he wanted to be the reason. It couldn't be that, though. _Could_ it? Deacon took the collar of the denim shirt and pushed it back off his shoulder. He was kissing his neck like they had all the time in the world, and he had no idea what was going through the other man’s head. Also, so this wasn't going to be a quick one-off? Were they spending the night...together? 

He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be doing with his hands. He let go of the blanket and rested them on Deacon’s shoulders as he moved across his body. Then Deacon kissed his other collarbone and began a slow lazy exploration up to his other earlobe. 

"I like your ears," Deacon said softly. "When you get embarrassed, they turn pink." He kissed the outer curve of his ear after he spoke. 

MacCready wasn’t sure what to make of that comment, and he felt his face get warm. Probably his stupid ears were turning pink right now. Deacon chuckled, low and MacCready felt his stomach tighten. Deacon and his stupid sexy voice. And always being so freaking unpredictable. 

Deacon nuzzled his neck lightly and MacCready’s breath caught. He turned his head enough to see stripes of light across the smooth curves of Deacon’s back. He slid his hands down his shoulders, gliding over the smooth flex of Deacon's muscles under soft warm skin until he reached the dip at the base of his spine. Wanted to put his lips there and wondered how Deacon would react. Pressed, pulled on his back, drawing him closer. Deacon squirmed a little before scooting over and MacCready could feel his hard dick against his hip. He cocked one thigh up to rub against the bulge in the worn canvas. 

Deacon made a noise in his throat. “Stop that before I get distracted from my goal,” he muttered. He pushed him away and turned his head to look at him. Touched his face, his jaw, his cheek, lightly, caressingly. "I like your stubble, even this half-beard you've got going. I like feeling it against my skin, like against my thighs, for example." 

MacCready licked his lips, watching Deacon watch him. He could be down for that. Tipping Deacon over on his back and opening up his pants and tasting him until the other man started losing some of that self-control. His dick jumped at the thought. "Yeah, sounds good," he said huskily. "Now?" 

Deacon shook his head and brushed his fingertips across MacCready's mouth. "Nah. Not until I get you to say my name." 

"Deacon?" MacCready said immediately. "Deacon." His cock was pressing hard into the seams of his jeans, and fu—frick, he can't even bother pretending that he doesn't desperately want the crazy spy in bed with him. That he doesn't love him, the paranoid jerk. Good-looking, annoyingly-smart _mungo_. Sneaky mystery man, acting like he didn’t care about anyone and then devoting his life to saving people that probably didn’t appreciate it, surrounded by ‘Wealthers who sure as heck didn’t appreciate it. Helping Gail, and Blue and helping him. 

But even though the words were dancing around right in the front of his mind, he didn't say it. He’d only said those words to two other people in this world… And, well, he really didn't want Deacon leaping out of the bed, plowing through the door and fleeing in a puff of smoke like in a comic. 

Deacon closed his eyes and took a breath. "I like the sound of that." Then he opened them again and leaned closer, hand cupped around the side of Mac's face. "MacCready. Listen. If someone fucked you and _didn't_ tell you that you were awesome and hot as hell, then they were a fucking idiot. And I'm including myself in that." MacCready was taken aback by the change in subject. He felt oddly embarrassed, as if it were some fault of his they're discussing, instead of his (mythical, rumored) hotness. 

What had possessed him to say it, that night on the overpass? He couldn't meet Deacon's eyes and instead started staring at the ceiling above them. Rough sheet metal, scavenged wood boards—afternoon sunlight gleaming through a few holes and breaks. God, he must have sounded so dumb. He guessed it must have been a combination of lust and insecurity. _I never had, uh..an adult call me hot._ He tried to make it a joke. "Thanks, Deacon, I'm aware that I'm an idiot, but the polite thing to do is to ignore it. Especially in bed." 

He tried to pull Deacon down to distract him and found the spot on his neck that made his breath catch. If Deacon can kiss him, then he can kiss back, right? Except...he still didn't quite dare—leap, door, flee. Instead, he nibbled, licked, sucked until Deacon's breathing speeded up. He could smell the faint fragrance of his soap on his skin and it tugged something deep inside. Like his shirts, like him, like Deacon, all mixed-up together, tangled until he wasn't sure where one ended and the other began. 

Deacon pulled away and tugged Mac's denim shirt down and off one arm. Then stroked his bicep gently. Let his lips follow, leaving a trail of soft kisses and nips down his arm. Licked briefly at the inside of his elbow before lifting his head, his face serious. "MacCready. You're not an idiot, and I'm not joking. This muscle here? Sexy. Your arms are hot, but really when you’re holding one of your rifles and you’re all bunched up and waiting—" Leaned up to whisper in MacCready’s ear. “—it reminds me of when I’ve gotten you tense and sweaty and remembering that—I can barely keep my hands off you. “ 

MacCready stared at him uncertainly but Deacon took his hand in his and laced their fingers together. Lifted their joined hands and kissed his index finger and then slid it into his mouth and sucked on it. He was leaning across Mac's body, warm and sweetly heavy and MacCready desperately wanted to lift his hips and rut against him. Tried and Deacon shifted to pin him flat. 

Deacon made a chiding noise and pulled his finger out of his mouth, and murmured, "Not so fast. These little calluses on your fingers? So hot. Especially when they're wrapped around my dick." Then he sucked on another finger. Turned his hand over and kissed the palm. "In fact, your hands in general are...delicious. That was literally the first thing I noticed about you, that first time in Diamond City. Your long sexy fingers, and these nice hands." He started kissing each finger in turn. "Next, I had to check out your eyes, and man, your eyes are gorgeous. I really liked your eyes. I spent the rest of the night trying to figure out how to get you into bed." He looked into Mac's eyes and smiled. 

Suddenly, it was all too much, the things that Deacon was saying, the things that he was doing...the kissing, holy sh—crap. He couldn't just lay back and enjoy it, even though he should. _Leap, door, flee:_ but he couldn't hide it anymore. MacCready stared at him, feeling confused, turned on, and just a smidge away from completely freaked out. 

Something flickered over Deacon's face, there and gone before Mac could identify it. "Something wrong?" he said casually and released MacCready's hand. 

MacCready took a deep breath. "Deacon, what are you doing? Why are you saying that stuff—" 

Deacon's eyebrows drew together briefly before smoothing out again. "Sorry. Too heavy?" He deliberately slid one hand down MacCready's thigh, slowly, almost to his knee and then back up again. He looked away, down MacCready's body, watching the progress of his hand across his jeans. Mac's cock jerked but he didn't touch it, just kept sliding those long lazy caresses up and down his leg. 

Arousal bubbled through MacCready's brain until he nearly forgot what he'd been saying. "No, it's just—um, I mean..." 

Deacon yanked his t-shirt up and kissed his stomach, just below his naval, just above where his dick was straining against the cloth. His tone was rough when he spoke. "I want you to scream my name when you come your brains out. I want to make it up to you for being an asshole that night on the overpass. Is that all right?" He mouthed at Mac's hip and MacCready thrust upward vainly, striving for some, any contact with his aching cock. 

It took a moment before the words penetrated his lust-fogged brain. And oh, okay, he guessed that made sense. It's Deacon being Deacon, playing a role again, and apparently tonight's role is 'tender attentive lover'. Exact opposite of last time's 'hot commanding lover', which is fine, god, yes, it was good. It was just that for an instant, MacCready thought— 

Never mind. Tried to ignore the sinking sensation in his stomach that wasn't at all compatible with the level of arousal in his body. Deacon pulled his tee over his head, and left it bunched up on the pillow. Then he skimmed his hands down Mac's chest, lightly over his nipples. Stopped—frustratingly— at his waistband. Then leaned down and let his mouth follow the path his hands had taken, paused to lick lightly at one nipple, then the other. MacCready sucked in his breath sharply and Deacon glanced up at him, his eyes dark and wide in the dim light. 

"Say it, MacCready. Please," Deacon said, then closed his mouth over the hard nub and sucked gently. 

MacCready's mouth was dry and he had to swallow hard. "Yes, god, yes. Deacon," he managed and the other man smiled. 

"Let's talk about another thing that I like about you," he said easily. "I like how responsive your skin is." His lips moved lower, tracing across his ribs and his stomach. Dipped his tongue into Mac's navel which made his stomach muscles contract. He paused and rested his head on MacCready's stomach, just above his groin. "Every time I touch you, no matter where I touch you, you react. After that one fight in Boston—those raiders downtown. By that fucking supermutant nest that Blue dragged us to, remember? Jesus, you were good. Your hands on that rifle...it was like you were playing a musical instrument. I was going out of my mind, I couldn't help it. There was a gap in your armor and I could see your skin... and I touched you, right there. And you, uh, you shivered. That was..so fucking hot. I wanted you so bad." 

He started kissing lower, down from his bellybutton and MacCready heard himself make a little choked noise. He remembered that touch—just, at the end of the fight, they're all reloading and shaking off the adrenaline, and out of nowhere, he felt Deacon touch his back, and— 

"Are you serious?" Because at the time, Deacon had said, _Hey MacCready, you had some blood there, get a stimpak if you need one_ , coldly, with no hint of—of anything. 

Deacon sighed softly, his breath whispering over MacCready's skin. "Yes, Mac—Robert. I touched you on purpose, to see how you would react because I wanted you so badly. Right there. Right then." His tone almost sounded affectionate, and MacCready had to suppress the urge to grab his shoulders and yank him up and kiss him. _Leap, door, flee, MacCready._ Instead, he closed his eyes and repeated 'he's playing a role, just playing a role' to himself over and over. Deacon started unfastening Mac's belt, tugging at it until the buckle was loose, and then threading the end through agonizingly slowly. 

"I like all this clothing you wear, even though it frustrates me no end," Deacon muttered. "Having sex with you is like unwrapping a present." 

"A good present?" MacCready asked, trying to get into it. It would be easier if they were both just... pretending. Tried to ignore the tightness in his throat. What the hell. Pretending was good, it was exciting. Wasn't it? 

"God, yes, a good present, one with kittens and blowjobs and um...gumdrops," Deacon said. He finished with the belt and dropped it on the floor. "The only problem with your clothes, specifically your duster, is that I can't stare at your butt all day, when Blue has us on one of her crazy-ass hikes to nowhere. You'll notice the jacket I gave you is short enough to allow a nice view." He let his hand ghost across the waistband of MacCready's jeans. Then looked at MacCready with mock-sternness. “You're wearing one belt. No ammo. Why—or should I say who?” 

MacCready was starting to feel like the girl in those old stories, the one who'd slipped into another world between one step and the next. Stepped into the mirror. Here everything was almost the same except for Deacon— He caught his breath. “You told me you were coming back— I was thinking ahead.” 

"That better be it," Deacon said in a grumbling tone. _Why does he care_ , MacCready thought half-wildly. _Why would he care how many belts I'm wearing?_ Then Deacon put a hand on Mac's fly, finally, finally and driving all thought from his mind. He made an abortive half-thrust up against the pressure and Deacon yanked his hand away. 

"Not yet," he chided. He unbuttoned MacCready's pants with a delicate touch and eased them down his hips to his ankles. MacCready felt awkward, his cock was just right there, obvious wet spot on his underwear (which were clean, thank god, because how could he have known this wouldn’t just be a grab-each-other-behind-a-building-and-rip-off-clothing hookup). Then Deacon pulled off his boots and socks and began rubbing Mac’s feet, strong fingers massaging out all the little kinks—shoes that don’t fit quite right, uneven soles, all the minor hassles that go along with living in a post-apocalyptic world. He almost forgot about his dick—it felt wonderful. Despite himself, relaxation stole over him. 

Deacon's hands moved up to his calves and he slid the pants the rest of the way off. "I like your legs, which should be obvious, and I like your ass. Like you spend a lot of time when you're fighting crouched down and that does really nice things for your thighs. I should know, I'm constantly in the back staring, because you have gorgeous legs." He rubbed the muscles of his calves and then pressed a kiss to each knee. Lingered, tongue flickering over the skin on the back of his knees and holy—that was a strange sensation. To have that warmth and moisture there where he wasn't even sure that he could remember anyone touching him before. His cock jumped, and he couldn't help making a little noise in the back of his throat. 

"Nice," Deacon said. "I really like the sounds you make when you're turned on. Man, do I." Moved his leg over a little and licked again, lapped at his skin, and it felt good, but it also reminded him of what Deacon's mouth felt like on his cock and that thought made him even harder. And Deacon hadn't even touched him yet, god. 

Deacon pushed his knee up and kissed the back of his thigh. "So I like the taste of your sweat—is that weird? It's probably weird, sorry. But I feel like I've tasted enough varieties now to make it a pretty firm statement. It's really best if you're sweating, because you know, we're fucking, but I gotta say the other times were still pretty nice too." He shifted up and sucked at the soft skin of MacCready's inner thigh and MacCready had to suppress the urge to yank him higher and plant his face on his groin. 

"Deacon, god," MacCready said hoarsely, feeling overwhelmed. 

Deacon cocked his head and looked up at him from where he was sprawled between Mac's legs. "There, see now we're getting somewhere. I'd rate that about six out of ten, breathy, a little raspy. I could definitely get used to hearing that." He went back to kissing and nibbling at the flesh of Mac's inner thighs and pointedly ignoring his dick. 

"So I hope that you appreciate all this self-control," he went on. "Because I lo—" he caught his breath, and stopped for an instant, but then continued so smoothly that MacCready almost thought he'd imagined it—"I like your skin, like, a lot and I like the way it pinks up when I suck on it and yet despite that, I am very carefully not doing so. But man, it's exhausting." 

Then he did a thing where he put his open mouth on the inner curve of MacCready's thigh, his head barely brushing the curve of his dick and let his tongue trace over his flesh. It was both ticklish and so fu—damn, so arousing that Mac's brain was about to short-circuit. He half-sat up, not sure if he wanted to push Deacon away and drag him up closer and a strange half-laugh, half-moan came out of his mouth. "Oh god, Deacon, Deacon—stop, please!" 

Deacon pulled away immediately and leaned his head against Mac's thigh. "Even better. God, at this rate, if I do get you to yell my name, I'm going to come all over myself." He used one hand to push MacCready flat again and grabbed at the waistband of his shorts. "Time to get rid of these." He pulled them off briskly and said, "Yeah, I like your dick. It's pretty goddamn nice in my mouth, in my hands, really just about any way." He stopped and grinned up at MacCready. "Every way." 

MacCready's dick jerked, hard against his stomach and a droplet of pre-come dripped down one side. And Deacon was still just staring down and god, it should feel really awkward, but at this point, MacCready's so turned on, it just felt...arousing. Deacon reached down and just brushed his fingers—lightly—and MacCready groaned and tried to thrust up against them. "If you don't start touching me, I'll touch myself." 

"Nuh-uh," Deacon said and smiled at him. "Let's keep our eyes on the prize—you, in some sort of yelly gaspy voice, saying my name when you come. Practice." Let his fingers brush teasingly again. 

"Deacon," Mac said immediately. Light touch at the head. Fingertips on shaft. One slow pump— "Deacon." Quick flickering swipe of Deacon's tongue around and down— "Oh, god." Warm wetness engulfed him. Remembered that there was something specific that he was supposed to be saying, "Deacon, D—Deacon!" And Deacon moaned around his cock, and MacCready barely stopped himself from thrusting upward blindly. Chest heaving with his breathing. 

Deacon pulled free and said hoarsely, "Have I mentioned how much I like that smartass mouth of yours?" 

The abrupt detour, the implied compliment might normally have sent him stammering and blushing but everything about this encounter was unreal, dream-like. Mirror-universe. Where Deacon lo—cared about him. Or something. He couldn't think about it too closely. _Playing a role, playing a role._ MacCready's heart was pounding so hard in his ears he could hardly hear his own answer. "Nope." 

"Well, I do. I —really like it, okay. And you groaning out my name while I suck you off is going right up there on the top three ways in which I like your smartass mouth." 

And then he kissed down the shaft gently and kept his touch and his mouth light and teasing and gentle and MacCready began to moan his name in earnest, interspersed with curses and pleas. 

Then he stopped again and MacCready grabbed his shoulder. "I swear to God, Deacon, what now?" 

Deacon smiled. "Not bad, a little growly, but I can work with it." He reached down to where his discarded shirt was and rummaged. Pulled something out and handed it to MacCready. He looked down; it was lube. "Now, sport, how about you fuck me?" 

He laughed softly at MacCready's expression. "Don't tell me you didn't see this coming, because seriously? I have like, this burning desire to have your dick in me, and after the week I've had, I'm all about moving some items off the bucket list." 

MacCready's heart was pounding, his dick was so hard it practically hurt and his balls were throbbing. And if he said all that to Deacon, he was pretty sure the other would just smirk at him and then remind him to keep saying his name. "God, all right, shut up, Deacon," he snapped and the other man smirked, yep, just like he'd thought. 

The only difference is the Deacon in his imagination still has his sunglasses on, and this ...uh, mirror-universe Deacon doesn't and his eyes are soft, and... caring. Which is—probably not something that he should be dwelling on, because. Because playing a role, remember MacCready? None of this was real, mirror-verse and all. Soon enough everything would go back to normal. But that didn't mean that he shouldn't enjoy it, while he could. 

He rolled over and pushed Deacon down onto his back, heard the muffled catch of breath, and thought yep. _Not_ quite _as cool as you make out._ He was still wearing the rough canvas trousers. He pulled down the zipper on his fly and tugged the pants down. Deacon lifted his hips obligingly and he pulled them loose and tossed them on the floor. Then he had to stop for a moment and just look at him, sprawled across the bed, legs apart. He wanted him, so much. 

Deacon raised his eyebrows and then snapped his fingers. "Wake up! No, seriously, a man has needs, baby, and this man needs _you_ , here, now. Capiche?" He beckoned to him. 

"All right," MacCready murmured. Then he put some lube on his hand and stroked Deacon's cock, hard and flushed where it lay on his stomach. 

Deacon took a deep breath and his fists clenched. "You know what I'm not hearing right now? This thing that I really want to hear, you have no idea. Like a big halleluiah but better. Um. That came out a little sacrilegious." 

"Halleluiah, Deacon," MacCready said. "God, you look good." Then he spread lube over his hand and reached down to push one finger in gently. 

Deacon took a sharp breath inward and said "Man, god thanks you and appreciates—ungh—the flattery." 

"Deacon," MacCready said. He leaned down and whispered it into his ear, while he added another finger and flexed it, crooked them upward until he could feel Deacon's cock twitch against his stomach. "Deacon, Deacon, Deacon—now how about you say my name?" 

Deacon's breath caught again, and then he said hoarsely, "Fuck, MacCready, have you not been listening? Because I've been totally yelling your name when I come, for like, months now, hell, maybe I even do it when I'm masturbating at HQ—which we have an agent that we used to call Mac and boy, did that get awkward, like, real fast—oh!" 

MacCready scissored his fingers apart until he felt Deacon relax fractionally, and god, he wanted him. Pushed deeper until he arched and said breathlessly, "Damn, gotta love those long sexy fingers of yours, MacCready, fuck me! This is me saying, please, okay, now." 

MacCready pulled his fingers free and lined his cock up with shaking hands. Eased in, past the rim and paused for a moment, hands clenching on Deacon's thighs and—"Oh, god, Deacon, don't move or I will come." 

And Deacon tightened around him, slowly, unmistakably and said, "As long as you do it saying a certain something, hint, hint, hint." 

"Deacon," MacCready choked out the name around the arousal thrumming through his skin, and seriously, he could come right now, but it was just too good, Deacon was so tight and hot and—he didn't want it to end. He leaned forward, and braced one hand on the mattress, and felt Deacon wrap his legs around his waist, lifting his hips just enough to—damn. Wrapped the other hand around Deacon's cock and stroked, slowly, in time with his thrusts. Stared into his eyes. "Deacon, yes, you feel so fucking good." 

It was almost unbearably intimate and hot and good—seeing Deacon’s eyes half-close and feeling the tremors in the muscles of his legs, and his teeth fasten on his lower lip—until MacCready shifted, changed the angle and his eyes flew open and he made a choked sound that went straight to his cock. Moved forward with long slow deep strokes, finishing with a snap of his hips that he knew was hitting the other man's prostate. Deacon moaned, “God, yes, baby, give it to me.” 

“Deacon,” MacCready managed. “Deacon. Deacon, ah, fuck, if I go any faster—“ He had to stop and breathe for a second, feeling a line of sweat trickling down his back, heat flushed over his skin. And Deacon’s legs tightened around his hips, ankles digging into the small of his back, forcing him deeper, harder and MacCready felt it drawing over him, and he was too close, he’s been too close for too long to stop. He gave in completely, gave Deacon what he wanted, everything he had and braced himself and pounded into him as hard as he could, digging his fingernails into Deacon’s hips and watching the way his eyes closed as he moaned. “Fuck, MacCready, yes, please, harder,” panting the words out. 

It was a struggle to keep his eyes on the other man’s face, but he can feel Deacon’s cock starting to pulse in his fist and he was tipping over the edge with him. “Deacon, look at me.” 

Deacon’s eyes opened, hazy and bright, fixed on his face, as if he was memorizing it. "Oh, fuck, MacCready." 

“Deacon, Deacon, yes, baby, yes,” and those were the only words that he could get out, and he wasn't yelling, they tumbled out in sort of a half-moan, and he wasn't sure that they were even coherent, but it was the best that he can do, as he was, y'know, literally coming his brains out. Spasms of pleasure lit up his body, and it felt like he spilled into Deacon's body forever, while Deacon quivered around him and his own dick spurted. Then his arms couldn't hold him up any longer and he sank down, half-covering Deacon's body with his own, and finishing with his face on Deacon's shoulder, in a daze of utter bliss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the lovin'! *wink*


	16. All of me loves all of you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *wearily falling asleep at keyboard* hfgdajkl;daf puera 
> 
> Updated tags: First Kiss
> 
> Ah! Finally, a day off and the tiny guttering flame of my creative energy gets some new life! I haven't had time to do anything but read comments, but God, do I appreciate them! I'm so sorry, I'll respond as soon as I can. Thank you, I love and cherish every single reader, I'm so sorry that this has been delayed.... I swear, we are finishing soon!

The earth moved, the night trembled, it was like heaven in his arms. Okay, that was a little over-the-top, MacCready. Still, it took several minutes before his breathing slowed down and by then, he was hyperaware of Deacon's body underneath his. "That...was amazing," he murmured into his shoulder, and couldn't stop himself from grinning like a goof, because that had felt better than anything he remembered in a long time. 

There was a twinge of guilt following the thought, because of Lucy. But it was like comparing mutfruit and tatos, for all that he loved them both. Lucy had been the warm bed on a cold night, they were each other’s shelter, and sex had been one of the best parts. This thing with Deacon, he had no idea what it was, but even still, he kept turning his expectations around, surprising him with something new each time. 

Deacon shifted, breathed out, and let his legs drop. The motion of his body moved Mac where he was still in him. He wasn't all the way down yet so he lazily half-thrust forward, wondering what it would feel like. Okay, not as mind-blowing as before, but not terrible either, and he thrust again before Deacon gave his shoulders a playful shove. "Oh my god, seriously. I need a few minutes of recovery, you sex fiend." 

He slid out, feeling a trickle of come escape, plus more smeared stickily between them. MacCready kissed Deacon’s throat, noticing the increasing dimness of the light. He could imagine what it looked like outside; the sun down, leaving only a few red and orange streamers across the western edge of the sky. Sunsets and sunrises were some of the prettiest things about the world outside Little Lamplight. 

There was an almost-unheard click and the quality of the light changed abruptly. The settlement lights were on now, the streetlights next to the turrets that helped keep the bad things out. After several days in Jamaica Plains, he was becoming attuned to the rhythm of the town, the unseen ebb and flow. It was why he’d spent so much time walking around Little Lamplight when he’d been Mayor, following the pulse so that he was there to stamp out trouble before it erupted. Familiar throb of homesickness in his gut. Missing Lucy, missing Little Lamplight, god, sometimes he felt so old. Like the wanderer doomed to walk the earth in the cruddy long poem that Joseph had tried to get them to read. He actually claimed they would like it if they gave it a chance. Weirdo. Like Deacon, in a way, thinking that the Old World had answers and if they just looked in the right books, they could find them. 

Deacon gave his hair a tug, and he realized that he’d been quiet for a while. “What are you thinking about?” 

He shoved the thoughts away (the fears that he’d never have a home again, not now, not when Lucy was dead) and blinked. Deacon was stretched out beside him like a puzzle for him to take apart and put back together. Even if he was in love with the jerk, and the jerk didn’t love him back, he still got this—and this was pretty darn good. His warm body against his, and the mingled tang of sex and sweat in the air. Come on Deacon’s stomach, just above where his dick lay, soft and relaxed. 

He ran his fingers through it experimentally. The moisture gleamed in the faint light that seeped in around the door and windows. He drew his fingers along Deacon’s skin, idly tracing spirals and circles around his naval. Deacon's stomach tightened, expanded and then he laughed. "Stop it. What are you, twelve? That’s disgusting." 

MacCready popped one of his fingers in his mouth and sucked it clean. "Hey, that's not what you said a few minutes ago." 

"Never has it been more clear to me that you grew up surrounded by teenage boys," Deacon said darkly. 

MacCready laughed and nuzzled his face into Deacon’s neck. He liked Deacon’s teasing, liked that he knew where he was from and didn’t throw it in his face as strange or unnatural. He sat up and stretched. "Blah, blah, blah, mungo." There was usually some water and rags in the empty bathtub at the foot of the bed. Associating with Blue had a few privileges. He fished out one of the rags and dipped it in the bucket of warmish water and wrung it. 

He brought it over to the bed and Deacon reached for it. "No, no, let me." Crawled up next to him and slowly, carefully wiped his stomach, his dick and his thighs. Lingered a bit, thinking about how soft the skin was there—skin that never saw sun despite all of Deacon's crazy disguises, with fine reddish body hair that he didn't bother shaving. By the time he was done and had cleaned himself, his dick, although still soft, was taking a definite interest in the proceedings. 

Deacon stretched out on the bed was dangerously enticing. He gave the towel a half-hearted overhand toss toward the bathtub and gave in to the temptation to see if the skin of Deacon's stomach was as soft as he remembered. 

Deacon huffed in amusement when MacCready pressed a soft kiss just below his bellybutton. "You're gonna have to wait." 

Despite the towel, there was still a faint taste of salt and come on Deacon's skin and it had him counting minutes in his head. "Mmm, I don’t mind if you don’t." 

Deacon reached one hand down lazily and carded it into MacCready's hair, staring at him with such obvious affection that MacCready had to drop his eyes and think 'playing a role, playing a role' again. Although, he was surprised that by now he wasn’t doing that shift into spy-Deacon and getting ready to leave. Instead, he was sprawled across the bed like a cat in front of a fire, in pure relaxation and every appearance of contentment. 

Deacon glanced down at him and then away under MacCready's scrutiny. Grabbed his arm and tugged. "Come here, you idiot." 

"Oh, we're doing the post-sex cuddling thing?" MacCready asked, but he let himself be pulled up until he was half on-top of Deacon. He let his cheek rest on Deacon's shoulder and looped one arm loosely over his midsection. Crooked a leg over, too, and tucked his foot under Deacon's ankle. 

Then listened to Deacon mutter and squirm before he settled down. "Sheesh, you're like a tentacle monster," he complained. "Not in the sexy way, in the all-encompassing, limbs everywhere kind of way." 

MacCready folded his lower arm across Deacon's chest and let his chin rest on it so he could look into his eyes. The other man's face was faintly visible in the dimness. 

He fought back a yawn and then said, "Shut up. You love it." He abruptly realized what he'd said and his eyes popped open, looking at Deacon warily. 

Leap, door, flee; his arms tightened around Deacon and he opened his mouth, ready to apologize or take it back or whatever. But to his astonishment, Deacon didn't look mad and he didn't seem like he was about to flee either. Instead, he put his hands on either side of MacCready's face, until their faces were nearly touching. 

"About that..." Deacon said and then trailed off and took a deep breath. There was a hum of nervous anxiety in the back of MacCready's head and he licked his lips. 

"Okay, well, I'm just gonna say kiss me, you crazy fool, and look inviting," Deacon said finally, his low tone and serious face belying the careless words. 

MacCready hesitated, staring into his eyes. "Um, kiss...your lips?" he asked, feeling stupid and at the same time, buzzed, wired with anxiety, heat rushing across his skin and face. 

"Yes, my lips, you perv," Deacon said, small smile quirking at the corners of his mouth. "I mean, not that I'm ruling out other places, feel free to let your lips do the walking or however that old saying—" 

MacCready leaned forward and pressed his lips to Deacon's firmly, not hesitating any longer, because that was for people who didn't know what they wanted and MacCready knew. God, did he. He moved quickly enough to catch Deacon's lips still moving. He nipped at Deacon's lower lip, until he felt the other man’s breath catch. Deacon slid his hand around to the back of his neck, caressing his hair, fingers against his scalp. Let his tongue brush teasingly along Deacon's lips, tasting musk and come and sweat and himself in his mouth. He put a hand alongside Deacon's face, thumb slipping along his jaw, and he could feel when Deacon shifted and opened his mouth wider, his breathing getting rough. MacCready hitched himself higher so that his neck wouldn’t start hurting. He had time to think both that this was going on too long and also no, not long enough before he decided to heck with it, he'd been waiting months to kiss Deacon. Now that he was getting the chance there was no way he was stopping before he was ready. 

Then he stopped thinking and instead just gave himself up to it, moving his mouth soft and gentle against Deacon's lips. Kissing had a rhythm to it, he thought, if you're not trying to just get it out of the way and start pulling off clothing. Deacon's lips moving under his, teasing flick of his tongue and nip at his lips and then parting, letting MacCready inside in turn, tasting, sucking, biting. Pressing against him, vainly because it was really too soon for either of them to get hard, but still wanting it, and realizing that kissing was just another form of sex, a way of entering someone else’s body with your own, and opening for them in turn. That struck him as unbelievably hot and he had to pull away to breathe and swallow hard. 

Deacon's eyes flickered open and he stared at him, pupils wide and dark. MacCready went to sit up and Deacon's hand tightened on the back of his neck and kept him in place. His lips were shiny from the kissing. 

MacCready smiled, touching the tip of his tongue to his lips. They felt tingly and tender to the touch. "So, not bad, right?" 

Deacon bit his lip, and shook his head, before finally surrendering and grinning back. "I guess that was uh, okay—" 

MacCready kissed him again, just a light brush. "Admit it, it was great," he murmured against his lips. Kissed the corner of his mouth and lingered. 

Deacon half-laughed, breathlessly. "Jesus, you're going to get a big head. All right, all right, it was great. I'm officially kicking myself for not asking you to do that earlier." 

"Mmmm....you don't have to ask," MacCready murmured in between kisses. He tried to coax Deacon's mouth open for another deeper kiss, when the other pulled his head away. 

Deacon waited until MacCready opened his eyes to look at him before continuing. "No, asking is good. Maybe you didn't learn that at Little Lamplight, with people randomly crawling into bed with you, but asking is very good." 

MacCready scowled at him. "Is this about that stupid overpass again? Okay, I'm giving you blanket permission right now to do whatever you want." He hesitated, flushing and said, "As for then, well, let's just say that I was into it a lot more than I let on at first." 

Deacon frowned. "Why?" he asked simply. 

MacCready looked away. "Jeez, Deacon. I was embarrassed. I knew Blue would be back, she'd probably figure out what happened and—" 

In his memory, she was crouched by one of the Freedom Trail medallions and he was keeping a lookout. _I don't see why this is a good idea,_ he grumbled. _I told you that guy was a liar and a spy and not at all trustworthy._ And a little bit later: _It's not like I came on to him! I was just sitting there minding my own business when—_

Blue tipped her head back. _Oh my god, enough! You're obviously into him_ , she said in his memory, sounding exasperated. _Have you tried talking to him, or is this junior high competitive bullshit the only way you can relate?_

He'd wondered what 'junior high' meant—like a small high? From a small dose of drugs? It was apparently some weird way of calling him immature or petty. God, Blue was strange. She was obviously annoyed though, so he shut up. But efforts to curb his tongue—and his thoughts—met with mixed success and the next time he started a sentence with: _It's not fair, Hancock's office is a public place, you know—_ she'd frowned. Then next thing he knew, he was spending a few days upgrading Sanctuary's guns while Nick went with her to the Old North Church. 

He dragged his memory back to the here and now. Deacon was looking impatient. "And?" 

"And, well, I'd spent at least two weeks complaining to her about you, since the first time she heard about the Railroad. She—she got sick of it, said I was obviously—" He trailed off, and didn't finish the sentence. 

Deacon stared at him and then started laughing. MacCready frowned at him. "It's not funny." 

Deacon, the jerk, just laughed harder. "It's a little funny. No wonder she was so strange that morning." 

MacCready rolled his eyes. "Yeah, she didn't let me forget that for a month." He imitated her tone: "Oh, you don't like this person, Mac? But you do want to sleep with them, right?" She’d also given him a ton of shi—er, crap for the handcuffs. _You have a funny way of interpreting: ‘keep him out of my way and maybe take the opportunity to talk with him’, Robert..._ However, no regrets on his end—the handcuffs thing had been freakin’ _hot._

Deacon brushed his thumb across MacCready's lips. "You do? You sure?" he questioned. 

MacCready caught his breath. "Yeah, I do." Then he was imagining Deacon spending the night, waking him with kisses and— oh, he was getting ridiculous now. And insecure enough to wonder if the only reason that Deacon was here was because of the slaver. He could believe that this was maybe an apology for the overpass and maybe a desire to hear MacCready's voice gasping his name, but mostly: a thank-you for going after him, them. Only MacCready would be dumb enough to assume that it meant anything else. He hesitated and looked up at Deacon and thought about saying something, to make it clear that he was not owed anything for that. Never. He'd do it a million times over for either of them, Gail or Deacon. 

He bit his lip and decided that he had to ask quickly before he chickened out. "Deacon. Is this—is this, uh, gratitude? Because you don't have to—" 

Deacon tipped his head over to one side and looked at him. "Wait a minute. Am I fucking you because of the whole 'saved from a lifetime of slavery' deal?" 

He flushed. "Yeah." 

Deacon shook his head in something like wonder. "Now I know you aren’t paying attention. Remember? I wanted you before you saved me from a hideous worse-than-death fate. C'mon, MacCready. Besides, I don't think just one fuck would do it. It'd have to be, like, a whole slew. Like a hundred. You should probably keep count and let me know when I'm getting close so I can get kidnapped again." 

MacCready was overwhelmed with pure, complete relief. Then the relief moved downward, predictably lighting a pool of warmth in his groin. Enough talk, he thought. He moved forward to kiss Deacon and then they both heard footsteps and childish giggling outside. 

MacCready wasn't sure who was faster, him or Deacon. But they both pretty much leaped up, grabbing pants and sheets and blankets, yanking them on and pulling them up. MacCready had grabbed pants and a tee and was pulling one over his head and stepping into the other when he heard a soft knock. He poked his head out of the neckhole and thrust his arms through the sleeves and prepared to get up to answer it. Sat back down on the edge of the bed in a hurry when the door started swinging open and glanced over at Deacon. Pants on, shirt on, not completely buttoned but... They were decent. 

He clicked the bedside light on and tried to slow his breathing and smile nonchalantly. No surprise when Gail peeked around the door. When she saw them, her smile widened infectiously. She bounced in, dragging baby Maria behind her and came over to the bed. "Deek! Mac! You missed dinner," she informed them. "It was mystery casserole, but it was good tonight. Mommy-Jay made it." 

"Your Mommy-Jay is a good cook," MacCready agreed. "Gail, do Mommy-Jay and Sonya know where you—" 

Her shoulders hunched and her lower lip pouched out. "I know, I know, they tol' me grown-ups need private time." She sighed hugely and MacCready regarded her in fond frustration. 

Maria smacked her little fist into the side of the bed. Her curly dark head could barely see over the top. "Seep!" she said in Deacon’s direction. "Nigh-nigh!" Then she stretched out her hands toward him and waggled them, in the universal baby gesture of ‘pick me up, right now’. Deacon glanced away from her, his expression unreadable. 

"She wants you," Gail told him earnestly. Deacon didn't respond, and MacCready wasn’t sure why. He didn’t think it was kids, because he’d never seemed to have a problem with Gail. Maria's face clouded over and MacCready leaned over and picked her up before she could start screaming. She twisted and held out one dimpled arm toward Deacon again. He finally looked up and smiled but it seemed forced. She toddled toward him and then overbalanced and fell on her hind end. She laughed when she bounced, her mouth full of teeny white teeth. 

Deacon smiled, more genuinely this time and poked her in the belly. "Yeah, you're a...a really cute tiny person," Deacon told her and she clapped her hands and crowed. Then Deacon glanced up at MacCready, his eyes wide and mouthed _What the hell do I do?_

MacCready fixed Gail with a Stern Look. "All right, you're supposed to be heading to bed, I bet," he said firmly. 

Maria’s eyes widened and she put both chubby hands over her mouth. MacCready suppressed a smile. "You too, cutie. Go see Mommy." 

"Go!" Maria said. She wiggled over to the side of the bed and started to slide down fearlessly, causing Deacon to curse and make a wild grab for her arms and lower her carefully. Once she was back on the floor, she grabbed Gail's hand. "Go!" she told her. 

Gail pouted, and MacCready rolled his eyes. "No." 

She glanced at Deacon hopefully and he put a hand up to block the sight of her. "No, Gail, don't look at me like that. Just do whatever MacCready says." 

She scuffed her feet and sniffled. "I only wanted a goodnight kiss." 

MacCready glanced at Deacon but he leaned over without hesitation and planted a gentle kiss on the tops of each of their heads. "Goodnight," he said softly. 

She smiled and looked over at MacCready. "Ew, go away, kid," he said gruffly, pretending to push her. She giggled and he kissed her forehead and then Maria's. "You know me, I'm—" 

"You're old and you need your sleep," she finished with a nod. 

"Gail! Maria! Gail!" Jay and Sonya's voices, outside but drawing nearer and both sounding a little frantic. Gail started, looking guiltily behind her and took Maria's hand. 

"Bye, Mac, Deek!" She scampered over to the door, tugging Maria and disappeared outside. 

"Hey, close the—Gail!" Too late. She was gone, leaving the door wide open. MacCready sighed and got up so that he could close it. And lock it this time. Considered putting the chair in front of it for good measure. But the mood was definitely broken and when he turned around, he was half expecting to see Deacon preparing to leave. But instead he was sitting with his arms loosely folded over his knees and watching him intently. 

MacCready still wasn't used to seeing his eyes instead of blank reflective lenses. He walked over and Deacon scooted sideways, making a place for him on the mattress. Mirror-universe, where that kind of thing happened and it wasn't unusual enough to comment on. MacCready sat down next to him cross-legged. "Kids, great for interruptions when you don't want them," he said, trying to make it sound funny. 

Deacon took off his still-unbuttoned shirt and tossed it toward the foot of the bed. And glanced over at him. "You're really good with them," he said quietly. 

The words hit him like a sucker punch, reminding him of Duncan, his own son, that he hadn’t seen for...nearly a year now. Good with kids, while his own lived and maybe died far far away... "Just treat them like, y'know, they have their own thoughts and feelings, like people. I learned that from someone." 

He stared at the ragged metal wall of the shack and blinked hard. Thinking of Lucy talking in that calm, matter-of-fact way that she'd had. The way she'd talk to patients at Little Lamplight. _This is going to sting._ Always honest. _This is going to be okay. Go wash it off, and then I'll put a bandage on it._

Deacon leaned over and kissed his tee-covered shoulder. "You're not going to sleep in this, are you?" MacCready didn't respond and Deacon slid it up over his head. MacCready pulled his pants off and dropped them. An old habit; sleeping naked. He was drowning in thoughts of the past tonight. Deacon put his arms around him and drew him down, until he was lying like the little spoon to Deacon's big spoon. He didn't say anything, but MacCready could feel suppressed questions, hanging in the air between them. Considered whether he wanted to share that. He'd told Blue already and sent the drug off with Daisy's caravan contacts.... Deacon no doubt knew some of it already. 

"How much do you know about me?" Deacon hesitated and MacCready went on ruthlessly, “That I haven’t told you.” 

Deacon paused a minute longer and said, “You’ve moved back and forth between the Capitol and the Commonwealth. You were married but she’s dead now. You have a son that you left in Big Town, with the other former Lamplighters. You’re hard up for money, but not completely conscience-less. You’re a good shot, a bad enemy and you’d do anything for the short list of people you care about.” 

MacCready was glad for the darkness now. Because even though intellectually he knew that Deacon's job, that he takes very seriously, is intel, it's another thing to hear his most closely-guarded secrets spilled so...easily. 

Still, it wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been. He sighed. “A short list? Try no list.” 

Deacon’s arms tightened around him. “And you’re a really bad liar, did I forget to mention that? I was being ironic. Because that ‘short list’—” and MacCready can hear the quote marks, how does Deacon do that? “Has Daisy, Hancock, Mangnolia, Blue, Piper, Cait, Valentine, Gail, Jason, Maria and most of the rest of Jamaica Plains on it, plus most of Sanctuary. It’s not so short, MacCready.” 

MacCready felt himself flushing in embarrassment. “Don’t make the obvious joke.” 

“Don’t teach your grandma to suck eggs.” Deacon propped up on one elbow and cupped MacCready’s face. “I don’t know their names.” 

It hurt to think about them. It had been so long since he’d seen Duncan and even longer since he’d seen him healthy, running around like Gail. He sighed and turned over on his back, closer to Deacon. “Lucy and Duncan. Lucy died a few years back. A pack of ferals got her. Almost got me, too, but I had Duncan, so I ran.” 

Mingled shame and guilt swept over him, a combination as familiar as the scope of his favorite rifle. Like he hadn’t set that thing down on the ground a time or two and contemplated pulling the trigger with his toes. “He got sick about a year ago. Blue boils all over his body. Sometimes they’d heal up almost all the way but they always came back. And he got weaker and weaker.” He set his jaw. “I got desperate. So, I came north.” 

Deacon was silent for a minute. "To earn the caps for a doctor." 

MacCready smiled wryly. "Yeah. Joined the Gunners, which was a big mistake. And it didn’t even matter, because doctors weren't any help. None of them had ever heard about what was wrong with Duncan. Then I met a guy, another mercenary, that had it. He—" MacCready swallowed hard. "He died before they found the cure but his partner sold me the information. It was in a big building; totally infested with ferals. I was waiting for the right backup.” 

“And along came Blue.” 

“Yeah. You know what she’s like.” 

Deacon smiled. "Let me guess. She strolled in, ate the monsters for breakfast, grabbed your cure and princess-carried you triumphantly out." 

MacCready had to laugh, which surprised him because he’d almost given up on feeling anything but shi—crappy when talking about Duncan. "Yeah, almost. Anyway, we took it to Goodneighbor and sent it on a caravan south. And then I came to Jamaica Plains—now I'm waiting. To hear if it was in time or not." 

Deacon squeezed his hand and said, “It will be. But uh, why Big Town and not Little Lamplight?” 

MacCready asked himself the same thing twenty times a day, forever second-guessing the decisions he’d made. “Lamplight was too cold and dark and that seemed to make them worse. Besides, Red was at Big Town. Red taught Lucy to be a doctor and they were close. She’ll take good care of him...for her sake.” 

Deacon's arm slid across his stomach and tucked under his side, pulling him closer. MacCready welcomed the comforting feeling that it brought. He said softly, "Why didn't you go with it?" 

"Trying to get rid of me?" MacCready asked, trying to make it a joke and failing miserably. To his dismay, his eyes started stinging. Deacon's arm tightening around him was the only answer. MacCready wasn't sure if that meant 'yes' or 'yes of course.' Probably both. He sighed. "I promised Blue that I'd help her with the Institute." 

"She'd let you go—" 

"Deacon, that’s not it," MacCready said in frustration. "You mentioned the Capitol Wasteland. You know what it's like. It hasn't gotten better despite the water. The Commonwealth—what Blue is doing with the Minutemen—there's a real chance here. For a home. Safety. A future." He felt like a fool even for saying it. Mercenary MacCready looking for a home, for roots. 

Plus, part of him is thinking wryly, 'well, that will scare Deacon right off.' Leap, door, flee; any second now. Nothing like talking about settling down to a rootless wandering vagabond. He should know. MacCready has been a rootless wandering vagabond since he was sixteen. Knocking around the Capitol Wasteland, working in the Commonwealth, meeting Lucy again, and then straggling back to Big Town after she died, shell-shocked and grieving. Finally returning to Boston, swearing to Duncan that he would come back for him. 

He felt like a traitor for even thinking about leaving the Capitol Wasteland forever. But maybe it was time. Time to move on. Time to _grow up._ He hadn't magically grown up at sixteen, despite what he and Lucy had told themselves. Getting married, having the baby, even caring for him—it had all felt like playacting. Like at any moment, they could have turned around, and gone back to the other kids. It wasn't until Lucy's death that he'd realized what the stakes were. 

Deacon brushed his hair back from his forehead and his touch was so gentle that MacCready felt his eyes stinging again. He blinked hard. So long since someone had touched him like that. "I get it," Deacon said quietly. "I think you're right." 

MacCready wasn’t sure that he’d heard him correctly. "You do? Which part?" 

Deacon's hand slid down to his hip and tugged him over so they were facing each other. "All of it. You were right to come to the Commonwealth, right to join the Gunners, right to leave the Gunners, then to sign up with Blue." 

MacCready couldn’t even speak through the lump in his throat and Deacon went on, "Judgmental assholes like me can fuck right off. You did the best you could and it was pretty damn good." He took a deep breath. "You saved your kid. Saved Blue, a bunch of times. Saved Gail. And me, granted I'm pretty worthless—" 

“Shut up.” MacCready put one finger over his lips and Deacon's breath hitched. "That list of mine—you missed one. A guy, sneaky, really annoying. You know the type." 

Deacon wrinkled his nose and ducked his head, not meeting MacCready’s eyes. “Yeah, I know him. You’re probably better off without him, though. Stick to regular idiots like Trader Dave.” 

MacCready moved closer and then kissed the side of his neck. Whispered, “Word is, I can have both.” 

Deacon kept his head down and was quiet for so long that MacCready started to worry. But then Deacon said, “If you want.” MacCready didn’t miss the questioning tone. He looked at him, and his eyes were dark and serious, like he thought MacCready might smack him or kick him out of bed. Which was Deacon being a paranoid idiot, so business as usual. The lump in his throat had moved down into his chest and was making it hard to breathe. 

But he got it out. He said, “I do want.” So simple, so easy and yet... It changed everything, right? He watched the tension in Deacon’s jaw relax and then kissed him, before going on. “I want, I want, I want. Deacon, Deacon, Deacon. Happy?” 

MacCready stroked down Deacon's back to his hips and pulled him over on top of him. Kissed him hard and long, tracing his tongue along his teeth, like a secret message, just for him. He could feel him getting hard against his thigh. He broke the kiss and stared up at him, thinking about how much he... Not going there. Yet. But it's on the horizon now, and it wasn't mirror-universe at all... Just this one, where for once, good things do—did happen. 

"So, this is a thing,” he told Deacon, hoping like heck that he wasn't wrong. 

Deacon kissed his earlobe and whispered, "Yeah. This is definitely a thing.” Then he reached down to touch him and MacCready stopped thinking. And this time when he came, murmuring "God, Deacon, yes, yes," he didn't care about cleaning or anything. Just dropped off to sleep like a rock, limbs entangled and messy and absolutely happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> *Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading and commenting!!
> 
> *The saying ‘don’t teach your grandma to suck eggs’ is already 300+ years old, so I think it has a good chance of being around for Fallout. 
> 
> *Well, well, here we are! Only two chapters left!! Which, due to the way they’re structured, will likely be posted more or less together, probably in a couple weeks. And then we will be done with this story, that grew so far beyond its original outline... 
> 
> Ending notes: Because this story ended up being long and convoluted, I occasionally grew very frustrated with it. And when I did, I often wrote short bits, side or missing scenes, sometimes very cracky. I mentally dubbed them ‘ **The DVD extra features** ’. I also have the original ending that the story outgrew, but which I still like a lot despite it all (with the apology blowjob, which I tried futilely to save, leading to ‘No Chill in Goodneighbor’). 
> 
> I’ll probably add all of this stuff a few days after the ending, so if you see the chapter count go from 18/18 to 19/19 and then to 20/20, it will be because of these extras. Now, back to trying to carve time out to finish editing the ending!! LOVE YOU ALL!!


	17. You're my downfall, you're my muse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV change. Warning for extreme(!) introspection!

Deacon started awake, with his heart pounding, but he didn't move a muscle. He had learned not to, long ago learned how to cope with the nightmares and never make a betraying sound. He glanced around and recognized the place. The guest cabin at Jamaica Plains. He can make out the dim shapes of the furniture, darker outlines in the dim glow coming from the cracks around the door and shutters. The lights set up on the settlement's perimeter burned all night long. Still too early for any natural light. Probably three a.m., that time that numerous writers had cursed. The ebb of life, the deepest dark before the dawn. He wasn’t alone. Beside him, MacCready was breathing slowly and easily, sprawled out all over the bed in that ridiculous kid-like abandon that he had never grown out of. Just like he'd never grown out of caring about people, even assholes like Deacon, or playing with kids. 

Kids. Deacon kept his tears on the inside where people can't see them and use them against you. So he was dry-eyed when he stared up at the rough shack ceiling and remembered the dream, seeing Barbara with a tiny dark-haired mini-her, just as adorable. A little like Maria. Remembering a time when he was sure that vision was waiting for him in the future, actually seeing that in real life and not just in his fucking imagination. But the only thing lying in wait for them had been.... 

He turned over and stared at MacCready, annoying pain in the ass MacCready, and tried, really tried to blame him for all of this, hate his stupid mercenary guts for existing in Deacon's life. For bringing up all these memories, and thoughts and emotions. He'd managed pretty damn well all these years without Barbara...without anything. He didn't need anyone showing him what he was missing. What his life lacked. What he could have, if he only reached for it. 

MacCready’s face looked younger in the dim light, open and unguarded. His lashes were dark against his cheek. Deacon touched them, his fingers brushing the silky softness, the tender skin under his eyes, the neatly-trimmed beard and the spot of rough stubble under one corner of his jaw that he’d missed while shaving. He was sleeping naked instead of under fifty layers of covers, like Deacon had sorta figured he might. Because Deacon hasn’t thought about this, about sleeping next to MacCready, one foot stretched over to touch him so that if he so much as shifted he’d know it. Nope. Not one thought about sleeping next to MacCready. About a _thousand_. 

MacCready sighed and Deacon hesitated and then stroked his hair. Blue had been a good influence on him, he was more thoughtful, better fed, cleaner, and more comfortable in his skin than he had been the night that he met him in Diamond City. Granted, he was still a smart-aleck, his mouth racing ahead of his thoughts, too honest to censor them like a normal person. Still sexy, with his muscles and deft clever hands. Still an observant little shit that radiated an outer layer of ‘fuck off’ until you got to know him and then it was ‘closer, closer, closer.’ And still gorgeous, christ, he could only imagine what Robert would have looked like Pre-war, clean-shaven, neat hair instead of a shaggy mop; his wiry frame clad in clothes that fit instead of what he could scavenge. 

And he wanted _Deacon_. Some dumb, trusting kid impulse that still persisted, that sorrow and the Commonwealth hadn’t stomped out of him yet. 

Deacon wanted him back. Loved him so much, it felt like he couldn’t breathe, the love and fear clogging his throat and dragging at his chest. Until he breathed it out, exhaling a pink and blue cloud of _loving MacCready_ , that anyone with two eyes and a brain could pick up on. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Did he think they were going to play house, save synths and rescue the Commonwealth? 

No. There had to be a catch. Because if there was one thing true about the 'Wealth these days, it was that the only gods were Misrule and Misfortune. MacCready's hand twitched and he wanted to wrap his arms around him and pull him close, while he still could, before something took him away. God, he couldn't even work up a flicker of anger, he just felt...so damn low. Because the other man just kept being so fucking honest and open. And ...kind. 

_This won't end well_ , mental-Dez said. 

Yeah. No kidding. 

_Doesn't Sir owe Mister MacCready some consideration?_ Brit-butler asked. _Someone...better?_

Deacon half-smiled bitterly in the dark. Better than him? Definitely. Literally, anyone was better than a worthless, lying, murdering hypocrite. Who was he kidding? If he really loved MacCready, he'd crawl out of bed right now, walk away and never speak to him again. 

Except... Except he'd tried that, he had, and it hadn't worked. _This time, he would come after you_ , another voice said in the back of his head, a quiet voice, one that he hadn't heard for a long, long time. 

MacCready twitched again and breathed and then...one hand, groping outward, until he touched Deacon's arm, and then latching onto it. Then scooting over until his arm was draped over Deacon's midsection, his head on his shoulder and one leg crooked over his own. Until goddamn MacCready was draped over him, and only then did the other man's breathing slow and his muscles relax. 

His throat was tight. _But MacCready doesn't know everything, does he?_ He can't tell if it's Brit-butler or mental-Dez speaking. If he’s being honest, then it’s neither and both, the hard, cold part of himself, the part that faces up to his weakness every day and still drags him out of bed and onto missions. The one good thing about being a worthless liar was that he has nothing to lose. Had nothing to lose. He wanted to sit up, move away, walk around outside and light a cigarette, until this horrible trapped feeling eased, but if he did that, he'd wake Mac up. 

He didn't want to wake Mac up, even if he should. Why screw things up for himself, why couldn't he just choke off these feelings and walk away... He was all too familiar with the sensation of lying anxious in the dark. He took a deep breath but his mind wouldn't shut up, spinning and whirling until his heart was pounding in his ears, every fiber of his body yelling that now, now was the time to panic panic— 

MacCready's arm tightened around him and Deacon suddenly realized that he was awake, the shifty little bastard, awake and probably feeling his heart trying to beat out of his chest. 

"Deacon. What is it?" MacCready said quietly. Like it was no big deal. No reason that they couldn't just talk about things between them like any normal...people. Karma was laughing at him because if there was something that he didn't want to talk about, it was that, and a time when he wasn't ready, it was now. 

One night. He couldn’t have one night before everything went to hell. He thought that seeing disgust on Mac’s face would kill him...or kill what kept him moving. Yeah, well, worthless Deacon doesn't get to make those choices. He should move away, maybe sit on the chair and put some distance between them, but like a true coward, he doesn’t. Robert’s body was warm and close and he wanted to enjoy it as long as he could. 

"So I had a weird dream," Deacon said and sighed. Counting down the beats, the seconds remaining. Just a dream, which they all know is a lie, but it makes it easier. Pretending that this is just casual pillow talk and not his whole fucking horrible life. He licked his lips and forced himself to go on. He could tell from the cadence of Mac's breathing that he was listening. 

"I dreamed about being young. And scum, if we're being frank. Because while you were Mayor MacCready, destroyer of asshole grown-ups and kid-protector, I was a—bigot. I was part of this gang, the UP Deathclaws, we deluded ourselves that we were fighting the Institute. And eventually we lynched a synth—no, we lynched someone that we thought was a synth." 

He had to stop to take a breath, and MacCready shifted closer, tipped his head back to look at his face. Deacon wanted to look away, to grab his sunglasses and put them on, and he had never been so grateful for dim light. Because MacCready was looking at him, his eyes soft and--and tender. He brushed his fingertips down Deacon's face and the gentle touch ripped his heart apart...and then put it back together. 

Calm. It was too early. He hadn’t said it all yet. Keep the voice steady and the face impassive. "Because who was I kidding? It was probably some innocent farmer. But hey, all the cool kids were doing it. I try to stop my stupid dream-self, but nothing works. It happens in the dream like it did for real. We hang him from a street sign, and he gasps his life away, jerking, feet kicking. That...haunts me.” 

Another pause for breath, his heart hammering in his ears. He still remembered what the body had looked like, the blue lips, and bulging eyes. So many deaths since then, but he hadn’t forgotten the first. No push-back from the rest of the town: they were too eager to pretend that they’d been ‘rescued’. 

“I lost my stomach for it. I leave and meet a nice girl, marry her, settle down. The fairytale ending, right? Well, it turns out that she was a synth. And those bigots that I tried to walk away from—they find us, they knew she was a synth and uh... They...they..." He stalled out, unable to force the words past his lips. Like saying it would make it real. Like he hadn't spent the past God-only-who-knew-how-many-years trying to make it not real. If he could save enough synths, change enough minds, he could fix it. 

MacCready wrapped his arms around Deacon and squeezed. There was that stinging sensation across the bridge of his nose that he hadn't felt for a long time. "They killed her?" 

Deacon nodded. "So I killed them." He swallowed painfully. "And I wake up, knowing what I’ve done. Forever." Silence. MacCready wasn't stupid, and now that Deacon has laid it on the table, he waited with a resigned feeling for his reaction. 

"So, the Railroad?" MacCready said. 

"So, the Railroad," he answered. "Not that they knew just what they were inviting in the door. I mean, they've definitely gotten their money's worth. I've only gotten the whole organization murdered a couple of times now. Ran like a coward from one bloodbath, missed a synth infiltrator for the second." 

MacCready squeezed tighter. "Stop it. Desdemona, Glory, Carrington—none of them knew either, right?" 

"It's not their job to know," Deacon said. "It's mine." 

MacCready sighed. "Yeah, maybe you killed some people, got some people killed. Is that it?" 

Deacon frowned up at the ceiling. "Isn't that enough?" 

MacCready was still lying close to him and it wasn’t proof but still...Deacon began to feel cautiously optimistic. MacCready’s breath was warm against the skin of his neck when he finally spoke. “You’re not secretly Pickman?” 

It took Deacon a moment to catch the thread of the conversation. “I wish,” Deacon said. “My technique’s crap, I overload my brush and I have no idea what a pallet-knife does.” He waited a beat. “Oh, wait, you mean the bat shit crazy, torture-killing part. Not yet.” 

MacCready laid his head on Deacon’s chest and drew a line across it with his finger. Maybe he had a weird drawing-on-people's skin fixation. Jesus. That’s about the worst thing he’s thought about Mac lately, which is just pathetic. He blinked and MacCready said, “It feels like you’re asking me—and I don’t know where the line is. I don’t even know where I fit in, most days.” 

Line, drawing a line, get it. This fucking dork. Deacon captured his hand and laced his fingers through it. Wouldn’t let himself feel relieved. “You’re not paying attention again. I’m the same asshole that called you a murderer six months ago. Now’s your chance to, I don’t know, kick sand in my face, or work up a righteous case of indignation.” He bit his lip and went on reluctantly. “Kick me out of bed, make me go home crying.” 

“Would you?” 

“Baby, I would cry so hard, I’d just be a huge mess of snot and tears, everyone would have that uncomfortable, embarrassed look when they saw me—” 

MacCready raised up enough to look into his face and he immediately shut up. “I don’t care what you did. I like who you are now.” 

Deacon said, half-joking but not really joking at all. “You don’t even know me.” 

Robert rolled his eyes. “That would go better with dramatic music. ‘You don’t know me.’ Duh-duh-DUN!” He leaned forward and brushed Deacon's lips lightly with his own. “None of us can undo the past. We just try and do better, and balance the scales a little." 

He yawned and laid his head back down on Deacon’s chest. Well. Apparently, the talk was over. And he was still here. MacCready drifted back to sleep, he could tell by the way his breathing evened out and his clever fingers finally stopped twitching. Deacon didn't sleep, lying awake in the shack, while his mind constructed frantic lists of what he should be doing and where he should be going. Anywhere but here. Anywhere but where Robert Joseph MacCready looked into his face, said that he was doing better and kissed him. 

He doesn't normally try to look into his own personal future. It's bad enough trying to think ahead to what the Railroad needs, the next safehouse, escape route, supply cache. That's all that he lets himself consider. Him and the Railroad, marching in lockstep. Can't act like dreams, goals, moments of happiness are something that he's allowed to have. He's not. His job was doing an end-run hail Mary pass every damned day to try to save an organization that was surely doomed, until one day it finally took him down with it. Shit. 

See, that was why he didn't think about the future. The panic wanted him to jump out, grab a Stealth boy and scram. Snotty-Brit thought that was a fine idea. Mental-Dez agreed that he should get back to HQ. But..he can't force himself out of bed and out the door. 

At some point, the endless swirling in his head started tearing at his thoughts like rotted fabric, pulling and stretching them apart, losing all definition, and going fuzzy and dark. And then he slept, with MacCready breathing in his ear and wrapped around him like a vice-grip. 

When he woke up the next morning, he was alone in bed. He turned over and found his sunglasses neatly folded and a cup of lukewarm tea on the bedside table. No note. But he didn't really need one, did he? Jamaica Plains wasn't that big. As soon as he poked his head out of the house, someone would probably yell hello and tell him exactly where MacCready was. 

Because facts were facts, folks. He was blown in Jamaica Plains, blown to hell and back. Even if they don't know about the Railroad, they know that he's a friend of Blue's and he's fucking MacCready. That's too much. They know him, and not just in this guise. There’s a few that would probably recognize him until he had a face change. 

Not Gail, he thought with a flicker of sorrow. Kids were pretty easy to fool. He could dress up like a merchant and sell her mother a toy and Gail would hang back warily, like the cautious little bird that she was, and never _see_ him. He could probably do it once every year until she was twenty, and ready to move out on her own. The thought made sorrow wash over him. He didn’t have that kid-magic, whatever the hell it was that MacCready gave off, that drew littles out and made them cling to him and follow him. 

But Sonya would know. She hadn’t looked at his clothing or his shoes or his weapons when they’d sat and talked. She’d looked at his shoulders and his posture and the expressions on his face. Especially when MacCready had walked up and for a moment, Deacon couldn’t breathe because he was so damn beautiful. With the slanting sunlight bringing out the reddish tones of his hair, and his guileless blue eyes filled with surprise when they met his. His dammed pouty mouth that begged to be kissed. 

Deacon had had to shove down the urge to jump up and hug him, to haul him in close, and he’d shifted his weight forward before he realized what he was doing and forced himself to take it easy. Then he had glanced at Sonya and saw the small smile on her face. 

Charlie and Betty would probably know. Probably any of them that had seen MacCready and him together. He can’t seem to control his body language around the other man, he kept wanting to touch him. 

God, this was bad. 

Let's not even talk about the sleeping Deathclaw in the room, which was Desdemona. If random dumbass settlers can pick up on it, then Desdemona was probably having vague prophetic dreams right now that Deacon has fucked up. Somehow. 

And if any of this got to the wrong ears then he would pay, MacCready would pay, Jamaica Plains would pay. The Institute wouldn't hesitate to kill every last man, woman and child for a hint of information. They had Blue dangling on a string for her son. They had to have information on the people close to her. They weren’t dumb enough to have missed Danse, but they were probably wondering how deep she was in with the Railroad. 

In the harsh light of day, it was impossible to deny. It didn’t matter that Robert had offered him understanding. His personal troubles had no business interfering with what the Commonwealth needed, which was keeping Blue aimed squarely at the Institute like a Pre-war guided missile. 

(Not to mention what Robert needed, a safe secure region, a place to raise his son.) 

There was a welcome numbness that came with grief. It kept you from feeling just how big the loss was right away, gave you a chance to look at the body under the blanket, take a breath, and think: Well, that's not too bad. It let you walk and talk and continue functioning for a little while. Before you realized just how hurt you were. 

He traveled light, like a good spy. And he wasn't taking any of MacCready's stuff. It was still hard to slip out of a one room shack on the edge of a settlement, but he managed. Like he always does. And then he can slip away from Jamaica Plains, around a corner until he was hidden by the buildings and then down the alley to Mercer Safehouse. Like a fucking worthless coward, he told himself that he was just checking on the caretaker. Nothing else. But the aching cavern of agony in his chest was back because he knew he was lying. 

The safehouse was dark...and empty. Tripwires and traps untouched. So, the caretaker was delayed. Given how shell-shocked the guy was, he couldn't even make a guess when he would be arriving. But it shouldn’t take longer than a week. Deacon rubbed his forehead and counted up days again. God, he was tired. Done on Tuesday, kidnapped on Wednesday, rescued on Thursday, walked on Friday, Allen on Saturday and oh, okay, so it was Sunday. Just a week since he'd seen Blue. Dude was definitely late but it wasn't 'presumed dead' late. Not yet. He could wait here for another day or two. 

And then, he could, _if_ he could, walk away and …. His mind, for once, failed him. He couldn't see anything in the future, and even one of his favorite imaginings, blowing up some idealized fantasy version of the Institute didn't seem real, or like something worth working for. In fact, at the moment, all he could think about was going back to Jamaica Plains and taking Mac back to bed, undressing him, and just fuck the rest of this shitty world. Put off the inevitable separation for another day, or another hour. 

He stood out in front of the safehouse and scanned the horizon. He'd left a note at the dead drop outlining the safe routes in... But just in case, he should probably double-check that. 

"Deacon!" He heard MacCready calling his name and his stomach had clenched up before he even consciously registered that it was too close and behind him and— 

He whirled around and MacCready was only about twenty yards away and right beside him, holding his hand, was Gail, tagging along after her hero like she did every day— 

On a street with mines that Deacon had set.


	18. My worst distraction, my rhythm and blues

His stomach dropped and felt like it filled with ice water. He swallowed back saliva against an onrush of nausea and held out one hand like he could stop them by blocking them out of his sight, because this couldn’t be happening, it couldn't. Time slowed and stopped, the bright morning sunlight mercilessly picking out the details of Mac’s jeans and Cappy tee and Gail’s fair hair mussed and tangled. It was like he was frozen in a vacuum, somewhere there was no light, no sound, nothing but emptiness, waiting numbly for the explosion, the shock-wave...the blood. 

Then time started again, and everything roared back into his head. They were still walking, he still had a chance and he yelled, "Stop!" MacCready paused, head tilted and he went on desperately, "Don’t take another step!" 

Gail froze, one foot half-lifted and then dropped to a crouch. MacCready grabbed at the rifle slung over his shoulder and started to turn and look behind him. 

Deacon summoned up every ounce of sureness and sharp authority that he had. "Stop it! Don’t move, not even to turn around, do you hear me?" 

MacCready’s attention jerked forward, to him and then to the street in front of them. His face paled. "Is it traps? Where?" 

Deacon opened his mouth and nothing came out. He could feel himself trembling with adrenaline and the sudden choking fear that they were both going to die in front of him. Leave him kneeling in a spreading puddle of blood from a tangle of arms and legs. Their accusing eyes, because he should have stayed away, he wasn’t built for relationships. Not then, not now, not ever. He couldn't _remember_ where they all were, the mines and tripwires that he had stashed around the safehouse, patting himself on the back for his own cleverness. 

“Deacon,” MacCready said. “I can’t see anything. Where are they?” Then he looked down at the little girl and said, "Gail, don't move your feet. Hang onto me." Gail was crouched down, making a small target of herself, not that it would help against mines. She was trembling, Deacon saw, and she was clinging to MacCready’s leg. 

He'd warned the settlers, gone around to every single adult and warned them all. Given them the cover story about the Pre-war weapons cache that belonged to Bue and told them to keep themselves and their children away, but he'd never warned MacCready. He'd never warned MacCready and now he was going to die because was a fucking coward, he was poison... 

"Deacon?" MacCready said again. “Babe, look at me. What’s going on?” Deacon took a step towards them, and then another, eyes searching the uneven rubble on the ground, trying to reconstruct where all the mines were, the tripwires didn't matter, it was the mines, the fucking disguised mines— 

He couldn’t look at them, but he could see Mac’s face in his peripheral vision, not hateful or even frightened, but calm with a hint of concern. “I don’t remember,” he whispered. 

He took another step forward but didn't dare go any closer. As confused as he was, he was as likely to step on a mine himself, why couldn't he remember— 

“Deacon,” MacCready said, his voice showing a hint of strain for the first time. “You’ve got this, you do. It’s okay. You remember the plots of all those books, right?” And then Deacon remembered making the birds-eye view diagram for the caretaker, ripping out an end leaf page from _As You Like It_. Working from the northern-most street and patiently sketching all the various approaches. He was facing east and they were walking up the western avenue... 

The dizziness disappeared and his pencil sketch snapped into his mind, correctly oriented. He straightened up and wrapped his arms around his mid-section, suppressing the desire to run, grab, rescue... "There's four mines between us," he said steadily. "One's by the wall and already behind you. The next is under that surgical tray." 

The surgical tray was approximately twelve inches from MacCready's right foot. Gail looked around with wide eyes, spotted it and cringed back. 

"It's all right, it's all right," Deacon said soothingly. "It's not going off. Move two feet over on the right and come forward four steps." 

MacCready leaned down and picked Gail up, and she started crying and clung to him. He eased over to the right and took four careful steps forward. 

Deacon let out a breath that he hadn’t even realized that he was holding. "Next up, the baseball base. It’s directly in front of you. Go at least four steps left and then, um, about six forward." He watched MacCready as he carefully executed the instructions. 

Deacon clenched his fists, the fingernails biting into the skin of his palms. "Last one. Behind the plastic alien, two feet ahead. Go around that, either direction, and straight forward." 

MacCready looked down at the alien and then up at Deacon, and his jaw tightened. He hoisted Gail higher on his hip and walked forward. Deacon watched him tensely, counting steps in his head. 

Once they cleared the edge of the safehouse, he ran over to them. MacCready's body was rigid with tension. He tried to kiss him and Mac turned his head. "You're clear now. Are you all right?" Gail sniffled and clung to MacCready's shirt. 

MacCready wouldn't meet Deacon's eyes. He pushed Deacon away with one arm while keeping Gail snugged close with the other. "Is there a not-death-walk way back?" His tone was flat and even. 

Deacon felt a chill down his back and tried to push away his apprehension. "Yeah. South. Straight down the road to the church." 

"And no mines?" 

"No." 

He walked off, and Deacon rushed into the safehouse and turned on the terminal with shaking fingers. Then he deactivated every defensive measure around Mercer Safehouse. 

About thirty minutes later, MacCready came walking back up the south alley. Deacon was sitting on the concrete steps, smoking a cigarette, when he saw him. He ground it out and jumped up. “Is Gail okay? Are you all right?” 

MacCready stopped about five feet away and just stared at him. “How did you know about those mines?” 

Five lies leaped into his mind. They were left over from the Treasures of Jamaica Plains defenses. There was an old Gunner base here. The storekeeper was one of those crazy survivalist-types. A few raiders had moved in and he’d taken them out while Blue was busy. And the best, because it matched what he’d told the settlers: There had been a Pre-war weapons cache here. He’d checked it out for Blue, but she wanted to make it a supply point, so he hadn’t deactivated everything. Sure, MacCready would find out differently from Blue but by then, Deacon would be long gone... 

It would be _so easy_. Instead, he swallowed hard and looked away. “I knew because I set them.” 

MacCready put one hand over his eyes and shook his head. But when he spoke, his voice held no surprise. Of course not. They all knew that Deacon was a fuck-up, why would anyone be surprised— “Deacon. Why?” 

Deacon couldn’t answer and Mac dropped the hand and looked at him. “Because you had to have a good reason to put mines around a settlement, where they could kill innocent people, kids, right?” 

His voice got harder, angrier. “Right, Deacon? Tell me.” 

“I warned them, all of them,” Deacon protested, feeling like he could barely push the words out through the tightness in his throat. 

MacCready smiled but there was no mirth in it. “You told them some damn fairy story about a Pre-war weapons cache. I know bullsh—crap when I hear it. What is it really?” 

_I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you._ Light, teasing comment, flirtatious wink, would that be enough to derail the other man? Pull him close, kiss him with every ounce of desperation in him. He thought—not. It was rushing down on him, doom, grief, the end of everything and even though he could see it coming, he was just as helpless to stop it as he had been with Barbara. 

He half-turned away from MacCready and gestured silently at the door behind him. MacCready frowned, opened his mouth and then closed it with a snap. Deacon could feel his attention sharpen, taking in a multitude of little details that Deacon hadn’t yet had time to disguise. The door hung straight in the frame and the hinges were heavier than normal. The paint was scraped and damaged but underneath the wood was solid. The lock was intact and the doorknob shiny. 

MacCready glanced from him to the door and then walked forward and grasped the knob. It turned and opened silently on well-oiled hinges. He stepped in and looked around. Two rows of shelving units that Deacon had scavenged from ruined stores were full of food, medical supplies and clothing. Weapons and ammo on a pegboard on the wall. A cot in one corner and two more mattresses behind the shelves, next to the door that led down to the basement and the escape route. A silent turret on the counter and another hidden behind the dirty glass of a window, with the barrel poking out through a break. One that Deacon had carefully engineered, scratching the glass and then tapping with a hammer until the crescent-shaped chunk popped free. And last but not least, in the other window—a lantern. 

“What is this place?” MacCready asked. He was facing away from Deacon. “Something to do with the Railroad, obviously.” 

"It's Mercer Safehouse," Deacon replied. “A stopping point for synths, where we can hide them before we smuggle them out of the Commonwealth.” 

“This wasn’t here when I helped Blue clear out the ferals,” he said. His voice was flat and Deacon couldn’t see his face. 

Deacon hesitated, steeling himself before answering. Kept his voice calm, reasonable, hoping that it would help. “We—we needed a new one. We lost almost all of them when the Switchboard went down and—" 

MacCready whirled around and punched Deacon in the mouth. He saw bright lights, and it knocked him back into the wall. MacCready grabbed his shirt and slammed him into the wall, and it hurt. He’d forgotten how strong he was. Yanked him forward, close enough to kiss, MacCready’s blue eyes wide with anger. It took him a moment to realize that MacCready was yelling. 

“You set up a safehouse next to a settlement! Are you crazy? What the hell possessed you—you nearly got Gail killed!” 

Deacon brought his arms up and broke Mac’s grip, pushed him away. But he couldn’t summon up any anger. Just despair. “Every safehouse is somewhere, MacCready. Somewhere where people are, you just don’t know about them. You think I like it? I don’t, but this is still the best placement—P.A.M.—” 

“I don’t want to hear what P.A.M. has to say,” MacCready interrupted. He was breathing hard and looking down at the floor. 

“I—I’m sorry,” Deacon said, feeling like his heart was being pulled in two. “Look, MacCready, please—” He reached out and touched his shoulder, wanting to pull him close and put his arms around him. 

MacCready yanked away and turned around to face him. “What happens when coursers come and attack it? How many people and kids will die because of this? Here?” 

“It’s far enough away—” Deacon started, hesitantly and stopped when MacCready held up his hands and smiled bitterly. 

“So you won’t be recruiting tourists from the settlement?” 

Deacon shut his mouth. MacCready stepped forward and fisted a hand in his shirt. “Runners won’t be going back and forth, disguised as traders, or as friends of your tourist? Stopping for a night, establish a cover, then moving on.” 

Deacon knew he was right. He could picture it already. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d noted which residents would make good tourists. Sonya was top of the list: kind, observant, smart. If he were recruiting her, he’d play on her love for Gail, asking what kind of world she wanted her daughter to grow up in. One dominated by the Institute? He’d soothe his conscience by telling himself that tourists were low value targets, their general life expectancy much better than agents or heavies or runners. Carefully not thinking about the exceptions to that, selectively blinding himself to thoughts of fire, death, ruin. 

Mental-Dez said, _That responsibility lies at the Institute’s door, Deacon. Not ours._

That was what they told themselves. Words to live by. Balanced against that: Gail, growing up with the Institute looming or without a mother? He couldn’t do this. He felt like he was disintegrating, dissolving and it was all Mac’s fault, why couldn’t he just accept that this was the way that Deacon had to be? 

It _was_ Mac’s fault. It had to be. He took a breath and said meanly, “So that concern for Allen, that was a lie? Huh. Good one. Fooled me.” 

MacCready blinked, confused for an instant and then his eyes cleared. He glared at Deacon. “That was different.” 

“I guess it’s your call, Deacon,” he mimicked the other man savagely. “What made it different? It was easier?” He pushed MacCready hard, knocking him back a step. “It was convenient? You didn’t have to do anything, risk anything?” 

He moved forward and grabbed Mac's shoulders, his fingers digging into the flesh under his Cappy tee. The one that Deacon had picked up for him, the cotton soft and light, one thin layer between his hands and MacCready’s skin. One layer of clothing on this stupid jerk, why, why, why? 

He wanted to cry. Or scream. Instead he said easily, “You still don’t believe that synths are people.” MacCready didn’t deny it and Deacon felt like his whole body had gone numb. MacCready pulled away with a huff. Mental-Dez and Brit-butler whispered, _We told you so, we tried to warn you._

MacCready looked into his eyes, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “Yeah, I guess the Railroad is more important to you than anything. More than Gail, or any of the real living people that didn’t sign up to be a pawn for Desdemona and P.A.M. Way more important than—” He stopped, chest heaving and bowed his head. 

_Than me._

“And if I’d gotten their permission to build the safehouse would that have made it okay?” Deacon asked dully. “You still wouldn’t care about the synths suffering, would you?” 

“If you—wait a minute. You did all this?” MacCready glanced around and frowned. “How long did it take?” 

Deacon wasn’t even sure why they were still talking. Wasn’t it clear that they didn’t agree, probably would never agree? There were things that were deal-breakers and this was his. He wiped his eyes under his sunglasses. “About a week,” he said. 

MacCready’s lips parted and he looked up angrily. “A week. Why didn’t I know you were here?” 

And Deacon had no answer for that. Not now. It didn’t matter. Mental-Dez said coldly, _Leave. If he's not part of the mission, he's just a liability._

MacCready looked up at the ceiling and sighed. “God, I’m stupid. You were here for a week. If you hadn’t gotten picked up by that slaver, I would have never seen you. You would have slipped away and that...that would have been that.” He put one hand over his face and his breathing hitched. 

Heartbreak stabbed through Deacon, turned to anger. He couldn’t do this, any of it. He wasn’t built for it, he crumbled, he crumpled, and everything fell apart in his hands. Like dust. Except for the Railroad. When he stepped outside of those boundaries, he might as well be killing them and himself. He should...he should leave. Now. This wasn’t going anywhere, except to a bad place, full of recriminations and regrets. He turned around, blindly, took a step forward and bumped into the counter and stumbled. Clutched at it, screaming at himself to go. 

“Deacon,” MacCready’s voice behind him. “Did you—did you know that I was here?” 

Deacon could see him in his peripheral vision, standing so tensely, arms folded over his chest. Deacon had practiced observing people for years. To find the thread of truth amongst the lies, both conscious and unconscious. MacCready's jaw was tight, and his shoulders were hunched as if he were braced for a blow. The fear and worry in his voice not quite disguised by anger. Because they'd been here before, hadn't they? The place where Deacon was lying to him and manipulating him. 

Deacon closed his eyes and hated himself. It was still a question. MacCready was asking him, not telling him. Because part of him wanted to believe that it wasn't true, didn't want to believe the worst of Deacon. And Deacon could smile at him, lie to him. Forget that MacCready didn’t care about synths—yet. Maybe with time, Deacon could change that. 

_Having him on board would bind Blue to us_ , mental-Dez said matter-of-factly. 

Deacon was afraid of how...reasonable that sounded. How easy it would be. He still...he still wanted him. He could recruit him to the cause. And all he had to do was what he wanted to do anyway—kiss him, lie to him. Tell him you love him. 

_If you're going to insist on this, then we can use him_ , mental-Dez added. 

"Deacon?" MacCready's voice was ragged. “Were you avoiding me?” See, the guy had some decent perception himself. He already knew the truth. He just didn't want to face it. 

Deacon straightened up and relaxed his shoulders and tossed his head back. Turned around, his body loose and easy, stance wide and open. He said, "You got it. Trying being the operative word. It doesn’t seem to work, which makes you possibly the most persistent pain in my ass in forever." 

MacCready recoiled, but not before Deacon caught a flash of hurt in his eyes. He took several steps away, until his back touched the door. 

Deacon moved away from the counter. Straightened his shirt, which gave him an excuse to look down and away from MacCready. Fingers were trembling so he shoved his hands into his pockets. "Here's the thing, MacCready," he went on. "I've got my own personal vision quest to achieve. You know—" his voice faltered for a moment and he took a careful breath. "You know that, I told you my story. That comes first, it always has to come first." He lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. "Hey, I like you, I admit it. But that's secondary." 

MacCready’s face twisted, like he was fighting back tears and Deacon shifted his gaze, over his shoulder to where the tripwires and their strips hung on the wall. Visual cues, because noise wouldn’t do for a safehouse. Quotes that he’d picked, penned on bits of paper painstakingly torn from old books. 

One, Romeo and Juliet. ‘With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls, for stony limits cannot hold love out.’ 

Two, Proust. ‘Ah, in those earliest days of love how naturally the kisses spring into life!’ 

Three... MacCready interrupted him. "How do I know you aren't lying to me again?" 

Deacon leaned against the wall and stuck his hands into his armpits. "Yeah, about that. It's probably time I made a clean slate of it. Sorry for drugging you that first night in Diamond City." 

MacCready's blue eyes went wide with shock. "What are you talking about?" 

Deacon's chest was constricting painfully, but he didn't let it show in his voice. "Yeah, I told you I was attracted to you. And I needed intel. You weren't taking the bait but a dab of Daytripper did the trick." He smiled at him, the easy open smile that he used when he wanted someone to like him. "Later on, Fahrenheit told me you were in Hancock's office. I needed you out of the way for an operation and hey, you are hot, I wasn't lying about that. And convenient." 

MacCready was standing frozen, fists clenched. "I was—convenient," he repeated in disbelief. "You say that like yesterday, last night—that was—that was nothing." 

"Don't change the subject." Deacon took a deep breath. "The next time. I knew you were headed to Diamond City. I chatted up Daisy. I got there ahead of you and staked out the Dugout. I was supposed to keep you and Blue from meeting. I didn't succeed," he shook his head regretfully. "But I did manage to delay it. And Blue still joined up, despite your less-than-glowing recommendation." 

"You were asking too many questions that night on the highway. I needed to distract you—" he gave the other man a predatory smile, "and I did. I got the intel on Little Lamplight from my Railroad source in the Capital Wasteland. I was hoping to dig up some dirt, in case we needed to separate you from Blue. I figured 'deadbeat dad abandons kid' would do it." He pursed his lips and looked mock-serious. "I didn't quite get that one right, but hey, can't catch 'em all." 

"You—you—" MacCready said, his voice shaking with anger. 

"Bastard?" Deacon said lightly. Shook his head. "Oh yeah, I forgot you don't swear because of the kiddo." Wanted to choke on self-loathing. _God, Deacon, you're a fraud, a fucking waste of space..._

"Don't talk about him," MacCready said tightly. He turned around and covered his face with his hands. Deacon felt like he'd been stabbed. Pushed down the urge to go to him, touch his shoulder, apologize.... 

_You told him the truth,_ snotty-Brit whispered. _It all would have come out sooner or later._

Nothing but the truth. Because he was a liar, a coward, worthless, useless. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood and pinched the bridge of his nose as hard as he could. He heard a footstep and opened his eyes as MacCready pushed him hard enough to send him across the room. He crashed into the first set of shelves and fell to the floor, stunned. 

MacCready stalked over and stood over him, eyes blazing in fury. "And yet Barbara's still dead," he spat. "No matter how many synths you save, she's still dead. You won’t let yourself get over her, you keep yourself cold and—and alone." 

Deacon stared at him and felt his heart start to pound. "That’s not true.” 

MacCready grabbed another shelf and rocked it until it toppled. “No wonder you and Blue get along- two icicles, freezing out anyone who gets too close. It’s not the Railroad that made you that way.” 

Deacon scrambled to his feet and grabbed the next shelf, preventing MacCready from toppling it. The other man glared at him. “You saved a murderer. Allen—that wasn’t him! It was the synth that killed him and replaced him.” 

He seized the next one before Deacon could shift and it fell with a tinkling crash. Sharp smell of kerosene in the air as a fuel container ruptured. "You don't want to hear that you and your precious Railroad have been doing the wrong thing all along!" 

He swung around and knocked another shelf over. He grabbed the lantern from the window and held it up. 

Deacon took a step toward him. "Don't," he whispered. "Robert, please." Breath hitching in his chest, reaching one hand out to him, oh god, he was sorry... 

MacCready grabbed his arm. And then just when Deacon was thinking, _he listened, he heard me_ , MacCready dragged him outside. Then tossed the lantern in and slammed the door. The spilled fuel ignited with a _whoosh!_ blowing out one of the windows. 

He threw his arms up in front of his face to protect it from shrapnel. MacCready yanked him stumbling down the street to a safe distance, then let him go. Deacon couldn't take his eyes off the blaze. The dry wood, the supplies that he'd carefully gathered, blankets, clothing, it caught fast. Heat baked the skin of his face, drying out his eyes behind his sunglasses. 

"What did you do?" The words were torn out of him. "MacCready, why?" 

MacCready's face was stiff and cold and he didn’t answer. Just turned on his heel and walked away. Deacon sank to the ground, staring at the fire, until the roof fell in and it consumed everything. 

 

/fin/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is at least 1-3 more stories in the pipeline! One or two shorter, kinkier ones then ‘Shame on Me’—not quite the behemoth that Fool Me Twice became, but a respectable 25,000 words or so. Shame on Me should be the final wrap up to the series.... But then I thought the series would only be four stories, sooo.....? Also, if there’s a favorite fanfic trope or kink that you’d like to see, speak up in the comments!


	19. Teasers and Credits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very dear thank you to everyone who commented and helped give me the motivation to make it through this fic! Also..I've been watching too many Marvel movies lately, so have some Marvel style after credits scenes!

#### “MUSIC CREDITS” 

“LOVE ON THE BRAIN” 

Performed By Rhianna 

 

“ALL OF ME” 

Performed By John Legend 

 

“STAY” 

Performed By Maurice Williams 

 

“IN THE STILL OF THE NIGHT” 

Performed By the Five Satins 

 

“CRY TO ME” 

Performed By Soloman Burke 

 

“I CAN FEEL IT COMING IN THE AIR TONIGHT” 

Performed by Phil Collins 

* * *

##### Teaser: Deacon outside of MacCready's trailer 

Deacon finished the bottle and dropped it to smash on the ground. Carefully straightened up, waited for his head to stop spinning and then walked toward it. MacCready. Damn him. The world narrowed down to that faded blue door. He was half-expecting Nick to stop him, but he got all the way across the yard without the synth showing up to grab his arm and drag him away. He was probably checking on Hancock. 

He finally reached the door and stopped in front of it, swaying a little and clenching his fists. Alcohol was a mixed blessing in these circumstances; numbness good, but acting maudlin, so so bad. Which was what he was doing, standing here pathetically outside his door. Deacon hesitated and then took one step forward and flattened his hand on the wood. Not knocking, not making a sound, just... Hoping? Wishing that things could be different. 

The little trailer was absolutely still, not a single creak or breath of sound. MacCready was probably so fast asleep that he wasn’t moving. Or maybe he was awake and staring at the door and wondering if Deacon was out there, if he would try to talk to him before their paths took them apart again... 

Deacon bowed his head forward and leaned it against the wood. “MacCready,” he said softly. 

There was a rustle of movement and the trailer’s worn metal floor flexed with a sharp sound. “Deacon?” MacCready’s voice from the other side of the door. A shadow moved along the dim light that shone through the bottom threshold, where the warped wood didn’t quite meet the jamb. 

Deacon held his breath. This wasn’t him, he wasn’t here... He needed to get back, he and Nick had to get on the road. “Deacon.” A low-voiced mumble from the other side of the door, like someone talking to themselves, with no thought for listeners. “Damn it.” 

There was a moment of stillness, MacCready on his side of the door, Deacon on the other, his hand pressed against the worn surface. Then the door knob began to turn and Deacon stepped back, thinking _This was a mistake._

* * *

#### "CREDITS” 

##### “FOOL ME ONCE” 

Alcohol and drug technician … Shubba 

Table setting … Vomit0rium 

Hair consultant … TinyFakeFanficRock, 

Clapperboard holder … UndreamedMist 

Ammunition manager … partofme 

Glass washer … stardustgirl941 

Flashback coordinator … CrackingLamb 

Set design … PunchSystem 

Official Taster … esorydoolb 

Interior character animation … JedidahJo

##### “SHAME ON YOU” 

Rock and foam-concrete mixer … Shubba 

Special effects fader … Stardustgirl941 

Robotic gen –1 supervisor … JedidahJo 

Processed sound stylist … SaintAstra 

Clothing continuity manager … TinyFakeFanficRock 

Set nurse … HancockBlocked 

Humane animal handler … partofme 

Restraints choreographer … Nublette42win 

Hair/stubble editor … esorydoolb 

Gaffer … ParaducksSpace 

Best girl … Fuzzyninjacat 

Assistant to Blue … CrackingLamb 

Wire work stabilizer … Charly 

Moon animation … PunchSystem 

Substitute killjoy … Flightfeather91 

Set lights tech … z0mb13grrl 

Campfire food chef … Yellowbananas8 

* * *

##### Teaser: MacCready in the Institute. 

Blue stepped out of their Institute quarters, frowning. Where the hell were Piper and MacCready? They knew how much—or how little—of the various department heads that she could take and they usually made a point to meet her. 

She'd been in Facilities today. There was only so much maintenance a person could watch before they went crazy. Plus, despite what Shaun said, no one there really trusted her enough to let her work on anything too critical. She’d swapped out circuit boards and re-wired consoles until she thought she’d pass out from sheer boredom. She wasn’t sure that this was what Shaun had had in mind when he suggested that she work hands-on with the various departments and get a better feel for the Institute’s mission. 

Piper had been talking about Biosciences so maybe they were there. She walked through the Star Trek doors (she’d wanted to share Star Trek with Shaun someday, now she’d never get the chance) and looked around. Newton came over, with his typical resting-bitch-face. “Yes? N—uh, Blue?” 

Shaun disliked her nickname and disliked even more that Piper had given it to her. Too bad. The soldier, the commander, the photogenic wife and mother headed for a bright future... She was dead and gone. “I was looking for Piper and MacCready,” she told him. “Have they been around?” Biosciences was her assignment tomorrow with Synth Retention last on the list. Maybe Shaun was hoping she’d get bored and skip it. No such luck. She was determined to find out everything that she could. She had to. If she was going to figure their ‘patented line of bullshit’ as Deacon would put it. She owed all of them that. 

Newton scowled. “Yes, they were here. Piper—” he said the name distastefully, “wanted to interview us and we had to decline. They left a while ago, and mentioned getting something to eat.” 

“Oh, an interview’s a great idea,” she enthused, more to yank his chain than anything. “It would help our image with the surface-dwellers! I’ll let Father know.” She smiled sweetly and turned away, leaving him fuming. She didn’t doubt that Shaun would put the kibosh on the whole idea but it was worth it to get these Nervous Nellies riled up. 

Once out, she headed for the cafeteria. Probably should have been her first stop, knowing MacCready. She spotted them immediately, sitting across from each other at one of the white tables. In the white room. Seriously, if she took over this place, then she was going to send scavenging teams out looking for paint. 

She grinned at them fondly before they had even noticed her. They had collected a variety of the different food supplements, set them all out in dishes and were mixing and tasting. A couple of Institute scientists were seated a couple of tables away and were glaring at them pointedly. Probably against one of their stupid rules. Piper took a spoonful of some brownish paste and one of red. Tasted and grimaced. “Okay, this is like radroach mixed with tatos. Yuck.” 

She held out the spoon for MacCready to taste and he frowned. “I’ll take your word for it.” He grabbed a sample of the pink mush and the blue and mixed them together. “Mmm. This one is... Fruit-y with a hint of something?” 

Piper tasted and nodded. “Melon, I think. Not bad.” 

They looked up as Blue dropped into the seat next to Piper. “Hey, Pipes, Mac. Causing trouble by wasting precious Institute resources?” 

Piper looked innocently surprised. “Really? We had no idea, being poor stupid wastelanders exposed to civilization for the first time.” 

Blue snorted and Piper grinned. “So, these are eighty-two, ninety-seven, one-oh-one, fifty-five and uh...what was the pink one?” 

MacCready looked up. “Seventy.” 

“You have to know math to eat a meal in this place. Great,” Piper grumbled. “How was your day, sweetie?” 

“Boooring,” Blue replied. “It’s enough to make me think they have to be hiding something, because no way is advanced civilization normally this mundane.” She caught MacCready frowning down at his plate and said, “What?” 

He shrugged and looked away. “Nothing. Just ready to get back to Sanctuary.” 

“You still seem down. Mac, seriously, what’s wrong with you?” Piper asked him. He didn’t answer and Piper looked at Blue and raised her eyebrows. 

Blue sighed. She’d noticed it, too. It wasn’t like Mac to be so quiet. “Sure you don’t want to talk about it—whatever it is?” 

MacCready said tonelessly, “Don’t you know, Blue?” 

Argh. Dealing with her own love life was bad enough, now she had to deal with her friends falling in and out of love or whatever the hell was going on between him and Deacon. 

Piper frowned. “I don’t know what it is. And I’d like to know.” 

Mac and Blue both said, “Can it, Piper” and then glanced at each other and smiled. Blue stuck a finger in the orange paste and licked it off thoughtfully. Yeah, it was about time to get back to Sanctuary. As for MacCready—she wouldn’t press him. If they needed help sorting things out, they’d let her know. 

Then, grinning wickedly, she flicked some paste at Piper, who squealed and flicked brown stuff back. The fight was on. The scientists looked even more disgusted and left, the gen 1s rushed over to clean it and MacCready finally stopped moping, at least for a little while.

* * *

#### “FOOL ME TWICE” 

Imaginary mist FX ... Sendnukes 

Assistant to Miss Gail ... TinyFakeFanficRock 

Social media viralyzer ... partofme 

Genitalia censor block manager ... Shubba 

Glass and window camouflage ... boopinbabbit 

Master gardener ... SerenStone 

Tropes/character arc analyzer ... JedidahJo 

Master bondage rigger ... Nublette42win 

Humane animal trainer ... esorydoolb 

Assistant to the Operators ... HancockBlocked 

Children of Atom stylist ... mad_mary_kidd 

Blood animator ... futsukushii 

Weapons/live fire manager ... LilBittyMonster 

Set continuity checker ... Gastie 

Costume ripper/distresser ... LaurenHobbes 

Stunt prop arranger ... Autumn 

On set tutor to Mr. MacCready ... CrackingLamb 

Fan Art best girl ... Susan 

Wig washer to Mr. Deacon ... Bettythetl 

Guest shack stager ... Meg 

Nuka-cola supplier ... Wedgehut 

Deductive inference decider ... Ammoth 

Costuming for Miss Piper and Miss Blue ... itsveryhardtoexplain 

Trademark legal advisor ... Missbubbles123 

Hair/beard/stubble supervisor … SaintAstra 

Fake wound care … Cannibro 

Child extra wrangler … charliechick117 

Script copying supervisor … gemstonedragons 

Romantic lighting ... artemisapollo 

Team building exercise instructor ... idle_in_the_marketplace 

Settlement food chef ... Biisalty 

Mental-Dez voice actor ... MadameRed 

Makeup development designer ... ftlb79 

British-Butler voice actor ... Thorinsmut 

Bed tester ….. SoggyPython 

Explosion tech ... Ikisti 

Laundry ... sociopathic_fangirl_on_Drugs 

Sponsored product placement ... ZombieGiraffes 

Tripwire quote selection ... Chartz 

* * *

##### Teaser: The note 

Deacon mentally ticked off the life events that warranted 'congratulations' from random acquaintances and the bad feeling got worse. "Uh. Let me see that note." 

MacCready glanced down at his hand as if surprised to see it there. "Sure, here," he said, handing it back. "Want some light?" He stretched and put on the little lamp on the table next to the bed. Part of Deacon was getting very distracted at having a warm, sleepy-smelling MacCready that was nearly naked pressed so close to him. Especially when he did things like lean forward, which pushed his ass against Deacon's groin. 

But even that was secondary to what Blue had written. 

Oh _shit._ He didn't realize that he'd said it aloud until MacCready looked over at him, eyebrows raised. "What? It can't be that bad, since the guard didn't kick us out?" 

Deacon handed it over silently and watched while MacCready read it. His face was an interesting study. First, narrowed eyes while he concentrated on the words, then his eyebrows went up and his lips parted, then pursed. His fingers twitched briefly on the paper, making it crinkle. Then a pause and his face smoothed out, hiding whatever emotion he felt behind a bland surface. He really wasn't that good at it, though, because there was a hint of pink color on his cheeks and ears. And Deacon can still see the tension in his body, heck, he can feel it from where he's lying next to him in the bed. "You didn't bother reading that when she wrote it for you?" he asked. 

"Uh, no." MacCready replaced the note in his pack and lay on his back, forcing Deacon to scoot closer to the wall. "Well. This is awkward. I guess you have to stay in case they come back, so—" 

_Awkward._ That was one word for it. Deacon groaned internally, remembering. 

_RJ MacCready will be housesitting for his honeymoon with my blessing, on the occasion of his marriage. While he is here, please extend the same courtesy to him and his husband that you would to me. Thank you. **Blue**_

He was going to _kill_ her.

* * *


	20. Original Ending (DVD extra)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original ending to the 'short' 'in-between' story that I originally planned to be a fun SHORT outing before Fool Me Twice. Then, like a ravenous Blob From Another Word, this story engulfed and replaced Fool Me Twice.

So... Summer 2017, I returned to Fallout fandom to find that a lot had changed in the year or so since I'd last been active. The kink meme had moved, for one thing. I tracked it down, found a story prompt and started writing. I already loved MacCready and I thought Deacon’s dialogue was the most interesting, so I decided to pair them. What’s the worst that could happen? (hahahahah) When I finished, I was cautiously pleased with the fic and thought it was fun. 

I got some positive comments which were very motivating and decided to write more. I picked out premises for 3 follow-ups and wrote about half of each story in first draft form, still unsure if I would follow through with all the work necessary to FINISH the stories and revise them so they weren't crap. 

Then one morning, I woke up and thought, MacCready has gotta be a kid person—charismatic kid Mayor and all—I bet kids following him around would make Deacon sad and angsty but also make him want Mac even more, which would also bug him! Ooh, awesome, I have to write it. But, hmmm...I've already got the 3 follow up stories set and half-done. Heck, this will be story 2.5--just a little in-betweener. I busted out a first draft in a few weeks, and it finished at 5,000 words (*cue hysterical laughter*)…. Since I was aiming for about 10,000 words (more hysterical laughter) for each longer story, with the goal being a finished series of 40,000 words, this was PERFECT for an in-between story. And I liked it. It would bump up the word count a little more than I expected, making this my longest fic since a Fallout New Vegas one. I was really nervous but hey, I'll give it a try! 

So as I revised/posted Fool Me Once, I also wrote all the sequels simultaneously. I was so happy to get good feedback from the first story—thank you, everyone who ever spoke up—you ARE the reason this series exists! After a while, I decided it was time to take another look at that unnamed in-between story. I went to re-read that early draft. 

Yikes. The pacing was crap. In my angsty let's-all-torture-Deacon, I had included WAY too many flashbacks in the first half—the ending was good as it was though, I liked the ending. 

All right, well... I'll restructure the beginning and convert the flashbacks to current action or thoughts. Re-write. If Blue’s not a flashback, then she‘s a current character, so that means I have to have a reason for her appearance AND Piper’s appearance, and why the heck is Deacon at Jamaica Plains? Why is Mac there? That can all be glossed over in flashbacks, but current actions require explanations. 

Re-write. Whew. Except now too much angst is clustered in the first few pages and reads like overkill. Hmm... Okay, well, I'll add Mac POV, which I'd been planning to do anyway and break up the angst of Deacon's POV and move some of it later in the story. Crap. This means I have to rewrite scenes that I've already written in Deacon POV to put them in Mac POV. Re-write. 

Adding Mac POV in the beginning changes things a lot, though, because I've already established that he isn't nearly as hesitant about his feelings as Deacon is. Mac being open about his feelings makes for a really short story...unless..there are some EXTERNAL events complicating things. 

Hmmm. Original story 3—you are going to be cannabalized and fed to the hungry maw of this ‘in-between’ story. Heck. Just start calling it Fool Me Twice and consign the original story to the dustbin. Goodbye 10,000 words of original Fool Me Twice!! Re-write, incorporating the slaver subplot to delay Mac and Deac confessing their feelings. 

You get the idea. By the time I finally got the two stories combined, we were at 25,000 words and climbing. Now suddenly the original lighthearted ending—which I hadn't touched in all this time—didn't fit AT ALL. I couldn't see any way to save it. Scrapped it completely with a sob. Had the bright idea to try to save part of it, which led to the Goodneighbor story, which led to the Diamond City story, which led to the Bunker Hill story. 

But now, Fool Me Twice is finally done. So if you'd like to read the original ending that I planned and compare it to what I ended up with, feel free. Just understand that this is a first draft, so don't expect too much. I loved Deacon's madcap craziness in this ending though. Poor MacCready, having to deal with him. 

Summary: Deacon is being deliberately provoking to try and escape Blue's demand that he straighten things out with MacCready. It pre-dates any of the other in-between stories (Goodneighbor, Diamond City and Bunker Hill), so this ending takes place two weeks after these two had sex on the overpass in Shame on You and where Deacon rather coldly walks away once Blue returned. After spying on MacCready for two days, he has finally worked up enough nerve to approach him. (It also pre-dates the British butler version of Deacon's interior voice.) 

 

\-------------------------------------------

 

MacCready looked rested and relaxed when Deacon walked up to him. “Hey there. How are you doing? Better?” 

MacCready raised his eyebrows and Deacon abruptly realized that since MacCready didn’t know that Deacon had been spying...er...watching him for two days, that comment sounded like a reference to …the thing on the overpass. Oopsie. _Awkward._

Mental-Dez rolled her eyes. _You’re not that stupid, Deacon. It sounds like that because you meant it like that._

Yeah, so? If Deacon had to be uncomfortable then they damn well both could be. Stupid Blue and her stupid demands. He glanced down at his feet, and then back up at MacCready’s face. He was actually blushing, which made Deacon feel all sorts of better. 

“Umm...fine, thanks. Yeah, I’m fine,” MacCready said. “You?” 

“Fine, yeah, um, I’m fine, uh,” Deacon said. Rational-self ruthlessly stopped him from saying ‘fine’ a third time. And pointed out that he could have simply left Jamaica Plains without a word. Pause while they both stared anywhere but at each other’s faces. Of course, staring at Mac’s groin doesn’t really help matters. 

“So what, uh, what brings you to Jamaica Plains?” MacCready asked finally. Deacon snuck a quick peek at his face and saw that MacCready was looking at his hands. Oh. _Oh._ He stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged. 

“Oh, just out, you know, doing my thing….” His voice trailed off. Deacon had not thought this through. Mental-Dez rolled her eyes and thought _I told you so._ He resolutely did not look at MacCready’s groin to see if anything had changed, although he was curious. 

“Umm, spying then, uh—on what?” MacCready replied. 

Deacon felt a wild impulse to blurt out ‘you’ which was, number one, a lie, so good and number two, in its own way, entirely too truthful, so really, really bad. The ramifications of saying that might be… interesting. He gave himself a mental shake. He could think of better lies. 

Rational-self firmly took the reins and said dramatically, “The Shadow knows! Well, I hope so. Just passing through on my way to HQ. I go where I’m told, like a good soldier. I totally had no idea you were at Jamaica Plains.” 

Lying through his teeth about, well, about _everything,_ felt…comforting. He was finally able to look in MacCready’s face, smiling slightly, with every bit of previous awkwardness securely locked up. 

“Right, of course,” MacCready said. “Um, heard from Blue?” He frowned. “She left me a note saying to get some rest, but I’ve been sitting around here for a couple days. Think I’m about as rested as I’ll get.” 

“Sorry, MacCready, I sure haven’t,” Deacon said. 

“Oh.” Something dark flickered in Mac's eyes, and he looked away. “Well, then don’t let me keep you.” 

“Oh, you want to keep me? Keep me where? In bed? Why, RJ, I had no idea,” Deacon asked perversely, keeping his tone light. “Tell me more.” 

MacCready’s shoulders tensed, as if Deacon had hit him. Looked down, avoiding his eyes. “Stop it, Deacon.” 

“Ooh, that sounds familiar. How's it go, let's see, oh yeah, I remember: Stop it, Deacon, stop looking at me, Deacon, oh yes Deacon, do, fuck me, Deacon,” Deacon said deliberately, letting a mocking edge color the words. Part of him wants Mac to take a swing at him for throwing that out there on the ground in front of them. But MacCready didn’t try to punch him. MacCready gave him a single burning look of anger, and then spun on his heel and walked away. 

“So that’s a nope, I don’t need an escort back to Sanctuary, Deacon,” Deacon called after him. “Right? Asking for a friend.” 

MacCready’s answer was one finger uplifted. Tut-tut. The children might see. 

Later, Deacon was back at Mercer Safehouse, stuffing his things into his pack and trying to feel light-hearted. He was sick of hanging around settlements, anyway. Blue was obsessed with the damn things. Time to head for Goodneighbor or maybe finally check out Covenant. Someplace with a bar and strangers to eavesdrop on. Maybe suck some dick. 

It was so much better for he and MacCready to not interact, like, at all. _Definitely_ better. Look how much better he felt. 

The real problem with lying to yourself, is that you know all your tells and giveaways, and thus it doesn’t actually work. 

Deacon was feeling shitty and miserable, but it didn’t matter. He’d felt it plenty of times before and would no doubt manage to make himself shitty and miserable in the future. He was a grown-up and only an idiot could look at the sum total of his and MacCready’s interactions so far and see anything but a flashing red warning light. A whole raft of flashing red warning lights. 

He was a grown-up and he had responsibilities, responsibilities that don’t just go away because of a cute-- And, _don’t_ finish that thought, Deacon, rational-self interjected. For once, Deacon listened. 

Then when he was closing the door to the Safehouse behind him, he heard footsteps. Turned around. 

It was MacCready, hands jammed into his pockets and staring at the ground again. “Look, I’m sorry—“ he began and Deacon felt the closest equivalent to panic that he had felt in at least five years. Because MacCready was obviously here to be nice and polite and-- 

“You just don’t get it, do you, MacCready?” he interrupted. “We’re fine. We don’t need to ‘talk’.” He made exaggerated air quotes with his hands. Then he turned away and walked toward the street that led to the edge of town. "Don’t follow me." 

Footsteps. Damnit. MacCready fell into step with him. Looked over and frowned. “We’re both friends with Blue, Deacon. We should try and be on good terms.   
There’s obviously some awkwardness, because of—“ he took a deep breath, “um, things, but—“ 

Deacon really didn’t need MacCready being all mature and sensitive right now. He stopped dead and wheeled around to face him. “Things?” He laughed, lightly. “Let’s not do euphemisms. It was fucking, and you were convenient. There.“ He shrugged. “That’s all it was.” 

“I was …there,” MacCready repeated in disbelief. Deacon was expecting MacCready to get angry, needed him to and he saw MacCready’s fists clench with relief. “Convenient.” 

“Yes. Exactly. Are we all on the same page now? I don’t even like you, MacCready, even if I --” and stop, do not finish that sentence, for the love of God. Deacon snapped his mouth shut and sneered at MacCready and turned away. 

MacCready grabbed his shoulder and spun him back around. “Why are you being like this, Deacon?” he said. 

“Excuse me? Being like what?” Deacon asked, before rational-him could tell him to shut up and stop engaging. Just walk away. 

MacCready was still angry, but he was also still thinking, which wasn’t a good thing. “You’re lying to me.” 

“Yeah. I’m a liar, I lie. You know what, MacCready, I grew up in a vault, that’s why Blue and I get along so well. No, wait, I’m a time traveler from another dimension. No, wait, here’s one—“ and it was hard to speak through the self-loathing, but he managed because he was that good. 

He smiled at MacCready, warmly, genuinely, grabbed both his shoulders and pulled him forward, as if he were about to embrace him. “I like you, MacCready. A lot. Really.” Hint of affection, maybe a little overdone. “We should totally hang out and be best friends. And then fuck.” MacCready looked confused and surprised and then… Understanding on his face, undercut with pain. He knocked Deacon’s hands away and pushed him hard. 

Deacon stumbled but kept smiling. “Well? How was that? Did you like that?” Because it was definitely a lie, right, Deacon? If you're lying when you say something is a lie, does that make it a lie? Interesting thought. He'd have to ask Dez. 

MacCready bowed his head and turned away. Silent. Deacon could read hurt in every line of his body, and goddamnit Deacon, this was what you wanted, remember? So walk away. Except… Okay, he was shitty, a fraud to his core, and a liar, but when did he turn into _this_ dick? Because he didn't like it. Didn't like him. 

“Hey. MacCready. I’m sorry.” He reached out to touch his shoulder. “Look, that came out way harsher than I meant, okay?” 

MacCready jerked away, dislodging his hand. Took a deep breath, and squared his shoulders, and Deacon could see the walls going up, the armor going on, and it made him want to punch himself in the face. “I get it, Deacon,” he said. “You don’t want to be friends…or anything.” 

“That’s not true, well, not completely,” Deacon said. 

MacCready turned and glared at him. “Okay, well, it is technically true, but—“ Deacon said, and MacCready turned his back with a huff and walked off toward the settlement. 

“Hey, MacCready, wait,” Deacon called, walking after him. He touched his shoulder and MacCready shook him off. 

“MacCready, I said I’m sorry,” he said again, and grabbed MacCready’s arm. MacCready pulled away roughly and kept walking. 

“MacCready!” He grabbed his arm again, and this time made sure that he had too tight a grip a shake off. 

MacCready tried to pull away, couldn’t and then turned around. “Let go.” 

They were back in front of Mercer Safehouse, Deacon noticed. “I’m sorry.” 

MacCready’s eyes were cold. “I heard you.” His mouth was tight with tension, and a muscle jumped in his jaw. 

Deacon licked his lips and took a step closer, crowding him back against the door. “I’m really sorry.” 

MacCready’s eyes narrowed and then he looked away. “Okay. I heard you.” He took a breath, and shoved one hand nonchalantly into his coat pocket. “It’s fine.” 

“Really really sorry.” Deacon took another step closer. “So we’re fine?” 

MacCready’s back bumped into the Safehouse door. “Yep, fine.” He looked at Deacon and took another breath. Deacon wanted him so much, his mouth was dry with it. 

He swallowed and said, “As long as we’re fine.” 

MacCready’s voice sounded strained. “Yeah, whatever, it’s fine, so I’ll just head back and—“ 

“How about I suck your dick?” 

MacCready went utterly still and then tried to push past him angrily. "Really, Deacon? Really." 

"I'm absolutely serious," Deacon protested. “It’s like, an apology blowjob.” 

He dragged MacCready inside the Safehouse and pushed him against the old store counter. "C'mon, the apology blowjob is a tradition." Slid his arms around MacCready, underneath the coat, and leaned into him. "I don't make the rules, man." 

MacCready shifted, and Deacon pressed closer, tugged his shirt out of his pants and slid his hands across the warm skin of his back. "Deacon, mixed signals. Dude. Seriously." 

Deacon dropped to his knees and looked up at him. "So is that a yes?" Leaned forward and rubbed his face across Mac's crotch. Definitely some firmness there. 

MacCready's breath hitched. "No, it's not a –no." 

Deacon rubbed again, and murmured, "Not sure that meant what you thought it meant, RJ." He started undoing his belt and paused to see if he had any more objections. 

MacCready clutched the edge of the counter as Deacon pulled his half-hard dick free. “What are you doing?” 

Deacon licked his lips and said, “You know, I thought it was totally obvious but I guess I need to step it up a notch.” Then he grinned, and planted a little kiss on the head, before sliding his mouth down the shaft. Pumped him and whoa, nelly, have to not think about the last time he did that, or this would go south quickly. MacCready got hard fast, swelling under Deacon’s fingers, and making his mouth ache for him. 

Sucked gently, teasingly, and then eased him deeper into his mouth, engulfing him, hot smooth skin, first taste of bitter pre-come and MacCready breathed out harshly and the counter rattled. 

Rational-him was twitching in a corner with his hands over his eyes, because this was madness, Deacon knew better. He did know better. Just didn’t care at the moment. 

He swallowed around Mac’s dick, swirled his tongue, ran his hands up his legs and gripped his hips. Taste, tongue, swirl, MacCready thrust, and Deacon added a little vibrating hum, just to show how much he enjoyed his work. MacCready made a choked sound in his throat, and Deacon felt it in his pants. 

One of MacCready’s hands ghosted across the back of his neck, making him shiver. He swallowed again, slid him deeper, until MacCready was moaning and making helpless little thrusts forward. He stroked under his balls, let his fingers graze the taut skin and Mac cried out and spilled. He sucked and swallowed through all the after-shocks, before easing back off. 

MacCready’s thighs were trembling and he slowly slid down the counter until he was sitting on the floor. The look on his face was pretty gratifying. Deacon wiped his mouth off with his hand and grinned at him. 

MacCready’s eyes met his and then he closed them and shook his head. “That was—“ He stopped and then said, “Just give me a minute, holy crap, Deacon.” 

Uh-oh. Deacon said, “That was your apology, MacCready, not mine. Don’t worry about it.” 

MacCready said, “But—“ and Deacon scooted over and climbed to his feet. 

He licked his lips and tasted him, MacCready, the stupid jerk, and for an instant, the want was back and so intense that he nearly crawled over to him and started stripping off his clothing. Methodically, because it would probably take a while. 

Instead, he repeated, “Don’t worry about it. I know I’m a hard read, but this—“ he gestured vaguely, thinking about how fucking hot Mac looked sprawled across the floor—“it’s really not a big deal, okay?” 

Then he slipped out the door and left, making for the edge of town at nearly a run. It was a shame he couldn’t outrun his thoughts.


	21. Behind the Scenes (DVD extra)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These last bits are complete and utter crack. Don't read if you hate fourth wall breaks!
> 
> I was high on cough syrup and feeling an angst overload when I wrote the first. Then I worked out my frustration with difficult characters with the rest.

"Dis-culpe-what? What the hell language even is that?" Deacon muttered, looking over the script. He was sitting at a round conference-style table, incongruous on the Wasteland soundstage, with six padded rolling chairs around it. Next to him was MacCready, already dressed in his usual duster and hat. 

"Spanish, dummy," MacCready answered, nudging him so his chair rolled back. Deacon stuck his tongue out at him. He was wearing a fuchsia Juicy Couture tracksuit, with the jacket half-unzipped. The pants did amazing things for his ass. MacCready would have trouble getting into character wearing something like that, but Deacon never seemed to. 

"At least you have more than three lines," Piper grumbled. She sat across from them, next to Blue. "Why am I even here? I literally show up to cannoodle with Blue and then disappear forever. This child guest star has more screen time. My clothing isn't even described! I might as well be standing there naked!" 

MacCready smacked his lips and Deacon whistled. She glared at both of them. 

Blue sighed, toying with the various buckles and straps of her Vault suit. "You're there to give me a good reason to push those two—" she pointed at MacCready and Deacon, "together." Piper's lips pursed and Blue said placatingly, "Fine, I'll get the writer to add a line about what you're wearing." 

"Not that goddamn red trenchcoat either. A nice dress maybe." 

"Whatever you say, honey." 

"And there you have it," MacCready muttered to Deacon, behind his script. "Why she had to write that in. Because some of us can't separate real life from fiction." 

Deacon snorted and took off his sunglasses to look over at Blue. "You know, just because you're the reader stand-in, it doesn't actually make you the boss. You get that right?" 

Blue folded her arms and looked annoyed. "You get that just because you're the fandom bicycle doesn't make you the boss, right?" 

"Whoa, whoa there, Blue, Deacon," MacCready said. He looked back and forth between them. "I thought I was the fandom bicycle." 

"He gives everybody a ride," Deacon said, laughing, and he and MacCready high-fived. 

Piper's eyes narrowed, and she muttered something that sounded like _immature assholes_. MacCready could _see_ Deacon perking up—he loved nothing more than a good feud. He scooted his chair closer and slid an arm around him to distract him. Nuzzled into his neck and whispered, "Have I told you how sexy you look today?" 

Blue rolled her eyes. "Oh my god, really? Don't stop on our account." 

Piper grabbed her arm. "C'mon, sweetheart, we're not getting anything done with them in this mood. Let's go see what there is to eat at craft services." 

Once the door slammed behind them, quiet reigned over the soundstage. Mac released Deacon, chuckling and scooted back up to the table and picked up his script. Deacon took a sip of his mocha latte. "I wish I knew how to quit you." 

MacCready glanced over the top of his script affectionately. "Brokeback Mountain. And no, you don't." 

They resumed flipping through the pages in companionable silence. "Oh, god, I've got more whining and talking to myself," Deacon said. "I really hate this will-they or won't-they storyline, it's so _done._ " 

MacCready smothered a laugh. "Yeah, you...haven't read very far, have you, babe? Here's a clue for ya—they do." 

"Oh, so we fuck again, big surprise there," Deacon said witheringly. He slid off his chair and knelt between MacCready's knees. Grabbed his hips in an over-the-top exaggerated motion. "God, let me suck you, MacCready, let me fuck you, jesus! But no mouth-kissing! Because the writer’s seen _'Pretty Woman'_ way too many times." 

"Having you down there is givin' me ideas," MacCready said absently. He paged through the script slowly, frowning. 

"Is that a line? Please don't say that's a line, because that's just, like, creepy." Deacon settled back on his heels. 

"Accent bleed," MacCready answered. 

Deacon rolled his eyes. "Babe, I hate to tell you, just because you did that summer Shakespeare thing, does not suddenly make you God's gift—" 

"Ah-hah," MacCready interrupted. He shuffled through the loose papers on the table, then held one out to Deacon. "That there is a gen-you-iine true love confession, partner!" 

Deacon glanced from the page to MacCready. "New pages? Already? You're shitting me." 

"I'm not shitting you." 

"Language, MacCready," Deacon said chidingly. He took the paper from MacCready and looked at it. 

"Fuck you, we're off-camera." 

Deacon leered at him. "Later, baby." Then he stood up and paced back and forth in front of the table with the script in his hands. "What the hell is this? This isn't according to the arc we established." 

MacCready shrugged. "The test audiences wanted the happy ending now. She'll figure something else out for the intro to story four." 

Deacon frowned and said, "I'm in love with you and it's scaring the shit out of me?! That...sucks. It's clunky, it's too long and what exactly am I supposed to be conveying?" 

"Being scared shitless?" MacCready tried and then shrugged helplessly when Deacon glared at him. 

"Deacon is a smooth, experienced liar who uses words for a deliberate and calculated effect," he said angrily. Waved the script. "This is neither smooth nor calculated! Not to mention the fact that it totally screws up the story arc. The third story is supposed to end on the Black Moment, when everything blows up, and the lovers are irreparably separated, allowing Four to start the climb back to hope and the climax!" 

MacCready winced internally. _Oh god, he was going off on one of his narrative structure rants_. "Did you say climax," he said, waggling his eyebrows and trying to get Deacon to smile. No dice. "Babe, just give it a try," he said soothingly. "If anyone can make it work, you can." 

Deacon was momentarily mollified and looked down at the page again. He muttered, "I'm in love with you and it's scaring the shit out of me. Hmm." He tried it angrily, with a growl to the words. "I'm in love with you and it's scaring the shit out of me!" Then, desperate, with a hint of pleading whine, "I'm in love with you and it's scaring the shit out of me." 

MacCready grimaced, wrinkling up his nose. Deacon glanced over at his scene partner and swore. Tried several more versions, with increasing frustration. Then he threw the paper and it fluttered to the ground in a less-than-satisfying way. MacCready knew that look. He held out his script with a sigh and Deacon took it, hurled it down and stomped on it. "Fuck this!" Stalked over and kicked one of the chairs. "I am not doing that stupid fucking scene! She can’t make me!" The chair rolled five feet and crashed into the stuffed Dogmeat stand-in, tipping both over with a clatter. 

Danse walked on-set. Stopped and looked at them both, at the tipped chair and the script on the floor, and then turned around and walked off, without a word. 

MacCready sighed and stood up. Deacon folded his arms and whirled around with an audible huff. MacCready put one hand on his shoulder. "Babe. I think we're coming at this wrong," he said. He turned Deacon around until they were facing each other and moved in, sliding an arm around his waist. Pulled him closer until their faces were scant inches apart and cupped Deacon's face caressingly. 

"I'm—I'm in love with you," MacCready said, slowly, haltingly. His breath whispered against Deacon's cheek. Leaned his forehead against Deacon's and closed his eyes. Whispered, "And—it's scaring the shit out of me." Brushed their lips together, hesitantly at first and then deeper, coaxing Deacon's lips apart and tracing lazily along his teeth with his tongue, tasting coffee and sugar and something indefinably Deacon. Deacon made a small noise in the back of his throat and MacCready pushed forward against him, clutching his hip tighter, fingers digging into the fuchsia velour. 

Then he eased back, broke the kiss and smiled at him. "Better?" 

Deacon blinked and then his lips curved upward. "Fucking show off." He pulled MacCready closer but before their lips met, muttered: "Still a bad idea, though." 

The writer slammed her laptop shut in annoyance, making them both jump. "All right, fine, you drama queens, I'll change it back. Hmph. I'm not gonna tell the reader what Piper is wearing, though. Screw it, they can use their imagination." 

 

****

## Outtakes 

****

 

Camera pulls back, exterior shot and— 

The three of them standing, hugging, Gail wiggling, MacCready's head tucked into Deacon's shoulder. He speaks, voice husky, "Watch yourself, Deacon. Some shady characters out there." 

Deacon raises his head. His voice is light but his face is serious. "Aww. Shadier than you?" 

MacCready pulls away and stares at him, while Deacon hesitates. MacCready licks his lips, and Deacon's eyes are drawn down, and Mac says, "I'm Slim Shady, yes I'm the real Shady, all you other slim shadies are just imitations—" 

Deacon drops his arms in annoyance and Gail doubles over laughing. "Damnit Mac. That was a good take." 

MacCready twirls Gail around and she starts singing, "So won't the real Slim Shady please stand up, please stand up, please stand up!" 

CUT 

 

**** 

Deacon, Gail and MacCready are standing, listening to Desdemona lay out the shot. “Okay, Mac, lift your rifle, shoot twice, drop it, turn, scoop up Gail and loop your arm around Deacon’s waist, Deacon fires over Mac’s shoulder, then both of you stumble sideways, one, two, stumble again. Then we’ll cut to falling.” 

“Let’s try it.” MacCready raises his rifle, shoots at the enemy, turns, grabs up Gail, arm around Deacon’s waist, Deacon raises his weapon and smacks Mac in the face with it. 

“Ow, fu—fu—fudge!” Mac sputters, before trailing off in a barely-voiced exclamation. 

Gail’s eyes get wide. “Are you okay?” 

Deacon bursts out laughing. “Well, now I want fudge.” 

“Again, please,” the director says, with barely-concealed impatience. 

MacCready raises his rifle, shoots twice at the enemy, turns, picks up Gail, slings one arm around Deacon, Deacon raises Deliverer and drops it. “Dam—er, darn it,” he exclaimed. 

AGAIN 

MacCready raises his rifle, shoots twice at the enemy, turns, grabs Gail, put one arm around Deacon and drops his rifle on Deacon’s foot. Deacon hops backwards and said, “Ouch, it’s okay, I didn’t need that foot, it’s not like we’re walking anywhere...” 

The director is pinching her nose wearily. “Again.” 

MacCready looks annoyed. “Let’s get this straight. Raise, shoot, I turn, Gail, waist, you shoot, stumble.” He slowly acts out each action, finishing with Gail in the crook of one arm, the other around Deacon, frozen half-way through a pretend fall. 

Deacon nodded. “Got it. Totally. Raise, shoot, turn, waist, kiss, stumble.” Suits action to words and plants a kiss on a surprised MacCready. Gail giggles. 

Off camera laughter. 

CUT 

 

**** 

 

Deacon is struggling to speak in his position, tied onto the Brahmin with his head hanging down. "Go tell the guy leading this thing that I'm awake." 

Gail shakes her head and pushes her hair back to show the wide metal collar around her neck. "I can't. If I do, this thing sparks and it hurts." 

Deacon hesitates, and then thumps the beast hard on the side, once, twice, three times. The Brahmin lows and then lays down ponderously, first the front legs, nearly throwing Deacon off its back, and then folding the rear legs. "Whoa, stop, gee, haw!" Deacon yells, as Gail skips nimbly back out of the way. 

The animal looks around, chewing ponderously and farts loudly. The slaver takes a step forward hesitantly and says, "Um, stop messin' with the Brahmin?" He looks around. "Uh, right? That was my line, right?" 

"Ha. Ha. Ha," Deacon says dryly. "Handler!" 

CUT 

 

**** 

Wide shot of a valley floor, panning down. Focus in on figures standing on the rough ground, surrounding another figure on his knees, hands tied in front of him and naked above the waist. 

Voices. “Okay, keep Gail's position out of the shot, we’ll be adding her in post. And action!” 

Off camera, someone yells, "Pow!" One figure falls. Everyone reacts, turning toward the camera. The kneeling figure drops flat. 

"Pow!" Another drops, clutching his shoulder. "Pow!" Another, grabbing futilely at his chest. The half-naked figure starts crawling across the valley floor. His pants drag down, showing bare hindquarters. He stops and tries to yank them up, but they're caught on a rock. 

[camera shakes and off camera laughter is heard] 

"Ummm...Deacon? Deacon? Forget something?" 

"Fuck!" 

CUT 

**** 

Wide shot, interior—train car. 

Desdemona is talking to the actors. “Eating, all nice and companionable, then Deacon, you fall asleep first, lean on Mac, snuggle, nice and gentle, fade to black.” Claps her hands. “Let’s go!” 

Deacon and MacCready sit companionably shoulder to shoulder while they eat. Gail is sleeping, off to one side. The enclosed space is surprisingly warm and cozy. MacCready licks the sugar off his fingertips and picks up the box to look into it. 

He pulls out the last cake. Deacon takes another swallow of water and yawns, leaning his head back against the steel wall. His eyes close, and he starts to slide sideways. 

MacCready starts to unwrap the cake and Deacon’s eyes pop open. Smack! He knocks it out of MacCready's hand and it tumbles to the other side of the car. 

"You—" MacCready’s lips twitch but he stays in character and mock-glares at Deacon. "Oh, is that how it's gonna be?" 

Deacon says, "The person rescued from a fate worse than literal death should get the last snack cake." 

MacCready says, "Nah, the person who rescued the person gets it. You already had two." 

The other man shrugs and says, "So did you. Yeah, but see listen to this—" and suddenly dives. MacCready is right behind him and bats it away. When Deacon starts to reach out, MacCready yanks his arm out from under him and he falls, starting to laugh. 

“Cut!” Desdemona yells. They both freeze. She walks over, heels clicking on the metal floor. “What the hell was that?” 

MacCready looks abashed. “Sorry, sorry, Dez—” 

Deacon interrupts. “It felt good, I went with it. The other was too wishy-washy. Boring.” 

She looks exasperated. “That’s not how the script goes, Deacon!” 

Deacon looks unrepentant. ”This is better. Stop sucking up to the writer, just because she named a character after you.” 

The producer rubs his face and clears his throat. “It does look good, Dez.” 

Desdemona sighs and looks heavenward. MacCready looks up, too, faint smirk on his lips. She says, “Fine. Again!” 

 

**** 

Deacon is carrying a sleeping Gail, while MacCready moves the mattress over to a sheltered corner. When he’s done, Deacon walks over and then trips, and falls down the stairs, arms flying wide in an effort to stop himself. Gail disappears from view, while a series of horrifying thumps is heard from the open stairwell. 

MacCready leaps forward, grabs Deacon’s arm and charges down the stairs. “Shit, Gail, Gail, are you all –Shit!” Camera moves to the head of the stairs as MacCready crouches next to a terrifyingly still Gail. He reaches one hand out to her hair, “Where’s the fucking nurse!” His posture goes stiff and he touches her hair again. 

Then he abruptly sits back on his heels and looks up the stairs at the camera crew. “Oh, I can’t fucking believe this—you... You assholes.” Grabs Gail’s head and lifts it, revealing the blank face of one of the stunt dummies. The blonde wig comes off in his hands. 

Deacon enters the shot, doubled over, laughing and wiping his eyes. “Oh my god, MacCready, your face!” 

Laughter from around the room and MacCready tosses the wig at the camera, obscuring it. 

CUT 

 

**** 

 

Charlie looks at Deacon, slow dawning of recognition in his eyes. "MacCready's ...friend," he echoes and then grins. "Yeah, right, I remember hearing about you now! It's nice to finally meet you. How long are you and Mac staying?" 

MacCready looks nervous and then pivots to stare at Sonya. She smiles and looks away. 

Charlie says: "I heard from Sonya that you helped out in the big rescue! Man, Mr. Deacon, that was nothing short of amazing." Smacks Deacon on the shoulder and Deacon begins to look tense. 

Deacon slides closer to MacCready and puts his arm tighter around him. MacCready hesitates and then gives Deacon's shoulder a squeeze. Close up on the motion of his hand. 

"His name is Bond. James Bond," MacCready replied in a flawless English accent. "With her majesty's secret service." Deacon looks surprised and then modest, polishing his fingernails on his shirt. MacCready continues, "We have a license to kill and no bloody compunction about using it." 

Charlie's eyes widen. 

CUT 

 

**** 

Deacon and MacCready are sitting on the top floor of the marina, looking out the hole in the wall into the night. They are passing a bottle of Nuka-cola back and forth between them. MacCready says, clearly angry: "Why didn't you meet me in Jamaica Plains?" 

Deacon looks evasive. "I got held up." 

"I found your..bullet. And—that place in the church." 

"Wait, what?" Deacon says. "Run that by me again?" 

"And uh—a spent mesmetron power cell. And your book. Those things show up in my nightmares." 

Deacon looks sad. "So— you have nightmares about reading books? That explains a lot, MacCready. I think there's, like organizations that can help even really slow learners, or we could get some tutors—" 

MacCready looks confused and Deacon breaks and starts laughing. “Dez, MacCready doesn’t know his lines!” 

CUT 

 

********** 

 

Blue and Piper are holding hands, standing in front of the guest shack at Jamaica Plains. "Deacon'll be coming and then—" 

MacCready interrupted her. "Deacon? Yeah, right. Have you seen how long he can last? That can't be healthy, it makes my jaw sore just thinking about it." 

Piper starts to smile but Blue looks at him seriously. "Well, I expect you guys to sort this out, MacCready, and sooner rather than later. We're all waiting for that sex scene, so chop-chop!" 

Off-camera laughter. MacCready shrugs elaborately. "Whatever. I'm gonna go practice my blow jobs." Opens the shack door and slams it behind himself. 

Blue winds up and throws her pistol in the air and Piper looks at the camera and makes a shooing motion. "What? There's nothing to see here. He'll probably be a while." 

CUT 

**** 

 

Interior, candle-lit 

Deacon sets his bowl on the floor, moving stiffly with implied emotional discomfort combined with physical arousal. "Hey, I forgot to mention. I, uh, picked up some extra stuff from those raiders. Shirts, I mean. Figured you'd want--" he waggles one hand, "you know, one or two or six. They're in my pack." 

MacCready turns to Deacon's pack and opens it. Pulls out a rubber chicken, which squawks when he lifts it. 

"Under that," Deacon says earnestly. 

MacCready's shoulders hitch but he sets the chicken down and pulls out a large dildo. 

"Well, that's for later, I swear there's shirts somewhere—" 

MacCready pulls out an American flag thong. With glow-in-the-dark stripes. Holds it up to Deacon questioningly. Background laughter. 

"Yeah, that's it. Wait, what do you mean that's not a shirt? MacCready, get back here and put this on!" 

CUT 

**** 

 

Charlie says: "I heard from Sonya that you helped out in the big rescue! Man, Mr. Deacon, that was nothing short of amazing." Smacks Deacon on the shoulder and Deacon begins to look tense. 

Deacon slides closer to MacCready and puts his arm tighter around him. MacCready hesitates and then gives Deacon's shoulder a squeeze. Close up on the motion of his hand. 

"My name is Underhill. Mr. Underhill," Deacon replied easily. "We're friends of Gandalf the Grey; can you tell him we've arrived?" MacCready looks surprised and then winces. Squeezes Deacon's shoulder again, a little harder, but Deacon ignores him. "We'd like to stay at the inn tonight," and he takes MacCready's hands and kisses the knuckles, "And our business is our own." 

Charlie's eyes widen, and then he looks exasperated, and shrugs at the camera. MacCready looks like he's hiding a smile. 

Cut! Dez says, “Damnit, Deacon, would you just say the line?” 

Deacon looks extravagantly innocent and holds his script up, where he's pasted the lines from Lord of the Rings over his relevant dialogue. 

Swearing. Camera goes black. 

CUT 

**** 

Camera on, moving and out of focus. 

It steadies suddenly and Gail comes into the shot, holding the camera and looking down into it. Her blonde pigtails are dangling on either side of her face. 

She's whispering, "So Dez let me look at this because we're taking a break and I already know all my lines." She sniffs. "Not like some people." She grins mischievously and her nose crinkles up. 

She turns and lifts it and the camera pans across the set, past the Brahmin and its handler, past a group of extras dressed like Operators, and onto— 

Focus in, tight, at the extreme edge of the camera's capabilities so the shot is still fuzzy. Two figures are sitting on the ground, at the far edge of the clearing. One has his knees pulled up and the other is right next to him, their bodies touching from hip to shoulder. It's Deacon and MacCready, and both are holding scripts. Deacon suddenly puts his script down and slides an arm around MacCready and puts his chin on MacCready's shoulder. MacCready's mouth is moving while he recites lines and then Deacon idly knocks his script out of his hands. Deacon kisses his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. MacCready stops reaching for the script and turns his head to kiss him back. 

[Gail is heard laughing off-camera] 

Camera moves, turns until she is in frame once again. "Isn't that gross? That's so gross." She rolls her eyes, "and I'm supposed to act with them, and they are—so looovy and yucky." She laughs again and the camera turns toward the ground and goes out-of-focus. 

Her voice is heard yelling, off camera: "Deacon and MacCready sitting in a tree! K-I-S-S-I-N-G!" 

Laughter from the crew and –camera goes black. 

CUT 

**** 

Camera pulls back, wide shot and— 

The three of them standing, hugging, Gail wiggling, MacCready's head tucked into Deacon's shoulder. He speaks, voice husky, "Watch yourself, Deacon. Some shady characters out there." 

Deacon raises his head. His voice is light but his face is serious. "Aww. Shadier than you?" 

MacCready pulls away without looking at him, swallowing hard. Squares his shoulders and straightens his cap. 

Deacon says, "Wait," and puts a hand on MacCready's shoulder. "Forgot to mention that I'm completely in love with you." 

MacCready wheels around, looking flummoxed. Deacon looks at him and then grins and says, "Because I'm Slim Shady, yes, I’m the real—" 

Gail claps her hands and starts chanting with him. "—Shady, and all you other slim shadies are just imitations—" 

MacCready laughs and grabs Deacon around the waist and pulls him into an impromptu dance, singing along, "So won't the real Slim Shady please stand up, please stand up, please stand up." 

All three of them start singing louder. 

Off –camera: Cut! 

They ignore this and keep dancing. 

[camera shaking unsteadily] Cut! 

"I'm Slim Shady, yes I'm the real Shady, all you other Slim Shadies are just imitations, so won't the real Slim Shady please stand up, please stand up, please stand up." 

Still dancing. 

Dancing. 

And— 

CUT 

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final, final, final end. Probably post a Deacon-only story next to get it out of my system... And then I'll be back with the first of the two in-betweens before Shame on Me begins. The guys run into each other. Yeah. Angry, unhappy words are said. See you soon!


End file.
